A few, maybe four, microwaves went missing from apartments in my building; all of them on my floor (thirteen), all different models, but similar in appearance. I’m the key suspect in all of this, the building manager says. My microwave is suspect.
My microwave is sleek with a very contemporary aluminum painted exterior, as to blend in with my very “industrial” collection of appliances. It cost me $25, and it was the third I have gotten on this ridiculous warranty, which covers many various malfunctions including electronic short, keypad burn, and, oddly enough, trying to kill other microwaves.
It’s not the most reliable of models, but my microwave is cheap and it’s cheap to fix. The only drawback being, it’s hard to tell people that my particular model of microwave is a little, well… off. Even if they are alright people, there is no point in trying to explain that. I’m not going there, even if their microwaves are all found on high, in flames, next to the pool enclave. And especially, especially if mine isn’t among them.
Now, for warranty sake, I’m walking down the halls, I’m looking for my microwave. I try push the usually locked doors in, to peek inside. I listen and smell for popcorn. I use my ears and nose to find the bastard, and I’m going to find him. He’s in the building somewhere. I’m listening for a low hum.