The Repeating Kitchen

I was crashing at my buddy’s place, a run-down ranch nestled in the scrubby hills of Arizona, not far from the border. A few of us from the unit had driven out for a weekend of cheap beer and bonfires. By midnight, the fire had died, the bottles were empty, and we’d all piled inside, spreading out across the living room floor and the massive, U-shaped couch that hugged the corner. I claimed the long stretch facing the window, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the others’ snores and the distant yips of coyotes.

Sleep came fast, but it didn’t last. I woke with a start, heart pounding, though I couldn’t say why. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a security light outside the sliding glass door. I sat up, groggy, and decided to get a glass of water. My bare feet slapped the cold tile as I padded to the kitchen. The kitchen was a narrow galley, and through the window above the sink I could see the desert stretching out, black and empty. I filled a glass, drank, set it down. And then I was back on the couch.

I blinked, disoriented. I was lying on my back, same as before, the ceiling fan rotating slowly above me. Had I dreamt the whole thing? I pinched my cheek, felt the sharp sting—definitely awake. I got up again, more deliberate this time. Walked to the kitchen, turned on the faucet, watched the water run. I filled the glass, took a sip, and then—blink—I was on the couch again, the glass still in my hand, water sloshing over the edge.

A cold dread slithered up my spine. I forced myself to stay calm. I set the glass on the floor, pinched myself hard, and got up a third time. I walked to the kitchen, but this time I didn’t stop at the sink. I went to the sliding door, slid it open, and stepped out onto the patio. The night air was cool, the stars sharp. I turned around to go back inside, and the door was closed, the latch engaged. I was on the couch, staring at the ceiling, the glass of water sitting on the floor where I’d left it.

This went on for what felt like hours. Ten times, maybe more. Every time I tried to do something different—run to the front door, bang on the walls, shout for help—I would find myself back on that couch, lying on my back, the ceiling fan spinning. The others slept through it all, breathing evenly, oblivious. I began to doubt my own sanity. Was I having a stroke? A seizure? I pinched my nose, my cheek, my arm until it bruised. The pain was real.

On what I thought was the eleventh attempt, I decided to stay on the couch. I wouldn’t move. I’d just lie there and wait. But that didn’t work either. The moment I closed my eyes, I was standing in the kitchen again, the faucet running, the water overflowing the sink. I turned it off, and instantly I was back on the couch.

Then I noticed something. The clock on the microwave was the same every time—3:47 AM. The fan made the same creak. The coyotes were silent now. And the reflection in the sliding door—was that me? I looked closer. The figure in the glass looked like me, but it was smiling. A wide, unnatural grin that stretched too far. I raised my hand; it raised its hand. I stepped forward; it stepped forward. But when I pressed my face to the cold glass, the reflection’s breath fogged the glass from the other side. It whispered, ‘Stay for breakfast.’

The next thing I knew, morning light was streaming through the windows. The others were stirring, groaning about their hangovers. I was still on the couch, the glass of water beside me, now warm. My arm was bruised from pinching. I tried to tell them what had happened, but they just laughed, said I’d had a bad dream. I let it go. But I never slept on that couch again. And to this day, whenever I close my eyes, I see that reflection, its smile widening, and I hear its whispered invitation, ‘Stay for breakfast.’