On late nights when the cold beverages call out to be drank or the english muffins to be toasted and eaten, he slips through the dark hallway, down the stairs and through the VCR-lit living room, trying very hard to avoid stepping on kittens on the way to the kitchen. He always underestimates the distance to the far wall and although he's stopped running in to it, he still has to reach out when he knows he's getting close and slowly advance until he feels the light switch. One painstaking and often painful inching-across-the-floor later, the stumbling can stop and an apology can be made to any kittens that have been stepped on. The kitchen is fairly new, it's been in the process of being redone for the past three years and until recently, one always had to make sure that a specific part of the kitchen wasn't marked as 'being worked on' and thus, unable to be used. Molding might slide across the floor, cabinets might have no knobs or any number of odd misplacements might be in effect. Fortunately, those times have past and he looked at the kitchen with unnerving familiarity. The muffins are often refrigerated, as is the butter. However, it's often the case that the muffins are retrieved from the refrigerator and then one remembers the butter afterward. If you're lucky, the remaining muffins have to go back in the refrigerator and thus, chance to get the butter without wasting an opening of the refrigerator. He hates the fact that he thinks of an extra trip as a waste of energy, a debauchery of inefficiency and most importantly, a flaw in his memory. Even though, it's this attention to detail that has done him well on many occasions. He'll deal with it.

The muffins are placed in the toaster-oven and a plate and knife are retrieved. A moment of rest ensues. On other nights, the kittens would get another apology as the cowered in the living room but on this night he stared across the room into the window. With the light on in the kitchen and nothing but a cloudy night outside, the window only showed his reflection in the kitchen he knew so well. Or... did it? He stepped closer to the window and reevaluated. This wasn't the kitchen he knew, no. It was the opposite kitchen. Perhaps it was really only the real kitchen in reverse but it looked so different while he stared at himself in his makeshift mirror. Moreso, this reflected kitchen felt different. Unlike the kitchen he had put no effort in to, his kitchen held only items that he had purchased. He had cooked on those burners, cut food on that counter top and taken glasses from that cabinet a million times and he cared about it because he identified with it all as being his. Suddenly, he realized that it was more than just a kitchen - warm sunlight was shining on his face and he felt a cool breeze through the open window. Definitely springtime. Music was drifting slowly in from the other room as he basked in his independence. A relaxing calm settled over him and he swore he could see a woman about to walk through the doorway only because she wanted to be closer to him.

Something was buzzing. His world quickly faded and he sighed as he realized that his muffins were done. It was still night and unfortunately, he was still in a kitchen that he felt no attachment to. He slid his muffins out on to his plate and buttered them. His placement of the [light--+--+--+--dark] knob on the toaster had been flawless as usual and his nooks and crannies were perfectly toasted. These would be good muffins. The knife went in the sink and the butter was headed back to the refrigerator as he remembered to grab a cold can of soda. Who drinks caffeinated soda at this hour? He does. Perhaps because he knew that he wouldn't be going to sleep in the next three hours or because years and years of drinking the stuff had reduced the effect to a slight sensation in his throat and nothing more. Muffins and soda in hand, he turned towards the wall and hit the light switch with his forehead. The return journey was both more dangerous, because of the plate of muffins and soda, and less dangerous, because the kittens were surely cowering under the table. He apologized once more as he made it to the stairs. Going up the stairs and down the hall was much easier than going up the hall and down the stairs since he simply had to follow the light from around his door rather than blocking the light from his door as he faced the opposite direction. He stepped through and then closed the door behind him, leaning on it until it made two clicks. One signified that the handle-bolty-thing had slid into the first groove in the door frame and would promptly pop back out again if he stopped leaning on it. The second click signified that the door would actually stay closed. He sat down and prepared to spend the night working towards what he wanted.