In the quiet uneventfulness of suburban life, I once owned a bicycle. It was not just any bicycle but a red, folding contraption, the kind that seemed perpetually on the verge of falling apart, yet inexplicably resilient. I relied on this humble machine for my daily commute between home and the nearest subway station, a distance that, while not insurmountable, was made less tolerable by the banalities of modern suburban planning.

This bicycle, cheap and cheerful at a modest 150 euros, became a fixture in my routine. Each morning, I would leave it in a nondescript, free parking lot, its existence marked by the indifferent urban sprawl. I locked it diligently, my early anxieties over its theft a vestige of its newness. Yet, as the days wore on and the bike's sheen dulled, so too did my fears. The rise of shared bicycles, with their ubiquity and convenience, rendered my modest steed almost invisible to the casual thief.

Or so I thought.

Returning from a business trip one evening, I was greeted by an unsettling sight. My bike, abandoned in that parking lot for over a week, had been violated—one of its wheels stolen. The theft was absurd, almost comical in its pettiness. Who would bother with a decrepit folding bike when public bikes and more expensive options were ripe for the picking? I shrugged off the absurdity, bought a new wheel online, and restored my bike to its former, albeit humble, glory.

Life continued its predictable march until another disruption: a holiday trip, followed by the discovery that both wheels had been taken. This time, the vandal left only the skeletal remains of my once trusty vehicle, chained forlornly to the frame. I tried to summon some emotion—anger, perhaps—but found myself disturbingly indifferent. I left the carcass there, convinced that no one would bother with a bike reduced to such a pitiful state.

But the universe, in its relentless mockery, proved me wrong. Days turned into weeks, and I walked home, the absence of my bike becoming a minor inconvenience rather than a daily grievance. One day, on a whim, I decided to check on it, to see if the remnants of my red bicycle still clung to their last stand. What greeted me was a final act of indignity: the frame itself was gone, leaving only the chain as a testament to its existence.

In that moment, I realized that in the grand, indifferent sprawl of life, even the most inconsequential objects are not spared from the absurd theatre of existence.