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 for 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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