The kid nudged a microwave with his head to keep it steady on his handlebars. The alley behind the library. He kicked against his pedals. Like he could do this. Like he could veer out of the alley balancing his body and a microwave on a single rear wheel. One hinge was broken so the door kept clapping against the kid's knuckles and he kept wincing. The back wheel struck the curb and the microwave tumbled backward. His shoulders and neck caved in.
There was more noise than there should have been. On the ground face first. His legs tangled in the bike frame. Pieces of gravel dug into his knee and he looked at me. I had planned to spend the afternoon plowing the American Lit stacks in a wine daze. I tried not to move. The kid stood. Hands on the cracked and peeling handlebar tape. Limping he wheeled his bike past a building. Out of the alley. The microwave's door had broken completely in the crash and I saw the sun reflecting in its bare metal hinges. I thought about tossing the microwave but you can't put one in a dumpster. Hazardous with the junk there. It might make sparks or whatever microwaves do to metal. The side of the microwave must've scraped the kid's shin open because there was blood. I thought I'd be able to make something good out of it and brought it here.