The Microwave

Another day has dawned. My clock reads “6:45”, but no one’s changed it in months, so there’s no telling what the actual time is. All I know is that I can see sunlight peeking in through the window above the sink.

I like that window. It’s directly across from me and is my only glimpse into the outside world. I watch the birds and imagine what it’d be like to fly or imagine myself playing with the cat who jumps into the window in search of food.

But I cannot move. I can only sit here and wait to be useful again.

In my youth, I used to imagine a life of adventure. Maybe I would be part of a ship’s galley, experiencing exotic foods from around the world. Or, perhaps I’d end up on a tour bus listening to musicians ply their trade over re-heated takeaway.

Whatever the assignment, I was sure that I could do great things.

Then, I ended up here; a small kitchen whose only redeeming feature is the window above the sink, and with an owner who has no time for me anymore.

She used to like me, once, when I was younger. I’ve reheated many Hot Pockets and cups of late-night coffee for her, but her affection has declined in recent years. Now, I’m lucky if she lets me soften butter.

I’ve grown old, and I fear that my time is coming to an end. What will happen when I’m no longer useful? Will she replace me with a younger, more powerful model as she did with my neighbor? Will I end up at the bottom of a garbage heap, suffocated by the fumes of everyday waste? Or will I be scrapped for parts and recycled into something unrecognizable?

Will she remember our times together?

I don’t know what the future may hold, but I’ll not complain. Instead, I’ll sit here and watch the birds through my window, waiting to be useful again.


The prompt for this story is “an inanimate object having an existential crisis.”
This is my interpretation. What’s yours?


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