Groaning with effort, the monster delivered a payload. Thud, thump. Machine parts screeched, seagulls screamed. The hill shook as the load burst over us, rumbling through our foundations and breaking us apart. Great clouds of dust detonated into the sky, debris flew as my home rumbled with discontent.

I knew this cycle all too well. Explosions, then the birds, then the dogs came to tear at us. And a sickening, chemical stink that lingered for days, until the next payload.

Out of the tumult, a sweet young voice rang out, "Hello over there, what's your name?"

I cleared my throat and coughed several times. "Henry. My name is Henry." I hadn't spoken out loud in years.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Dolores." She slid a little closer and I caught a glimpse of her shiny, glossy exterior. Such a pretty young creature, full of life and energy.

"Hello Dolores, welcome to Redvale. What year is it now?"

"2312."

"Oh drat."

She giggled. "What year did you think it was, old man?"

"Well, my dear, I wasn't quite sure. I'd lost track. Tell me, where have you come from?" I asked.

Helped by a strong offshore wind, she rolled closer to me. "My city of origin is Manila, but I was bought in New York City."

"New York City, I say. That must be quite some place in 2312."

"It is," Dolores replied, her tone wistful. "I had a wonderful time in New York City. So many great fridges filled with water bottles, chilled and glistening with the perfect amount of condensation. Makes me thirsty just thinking about it!" Dolores' laughter tinkled in the congested air.

"What about you, Henry? Where are you from?" she asked.

"I'm from England, my dear, London to be exact."

"And when where you made?" she asked.

"In 1957."

"What? How old are you?" Her voice squeaked.

"I'm 355 years old."

"What,  and you haven't been recycled?"

"No my dear, recycling is a myth. At the very most, 30% of us are recycled. The rest of us end up on dumps like these. We're more likely to slide off the side of this hill into the sea down there, than we are to be recycled."

Her glow dimmed. "They told us that we were special, not single use. They said we'd be recycled many times into objects people would love."

Oh, poor Dolores, so naive.

"My dear, I'm sorry to say that it's all a lie. Most of us are single use and end up here for 700 years, until we break down completely."

"What?" she cried out.

"Yes dear, 700 years, you heard me right. Or, if you're lucky, you'll slip into the sea and biodegrade in the belly of a fish. It's quicker that way. Merciful really. Thousands of my friends  have gone that way."

"But there are no fish left in the ocean."

"No, no! The fish were my last hope. I can't stand another 345 years of this."