The dreams were getting to him. Ethan didn’t remember ever having had such vivid dreams, and on such a regular basis. He needed to write them down and look up the meanings or something. That, or he needed to go to a shrink. He wasn’t quite ready to make that level of commitment, though. Maybe that was it, all the way around. Something wanted him to commit, and that just wouldn’t do. He had avoided committing to much beyond work or regular nights out for the last 28 years, or maybe better put the last 10 since adulthood. So there was no way he was going to go to a doctor to spill his guts 2 times a week, or even three times a month.

He didn’t have to be at work for awhile, and something prompted him to cook. Buck was still staying in his bedroom, and the girl… woman… professor… was over at Tim’s room getting a break from all the Buck weirdness. Ethan’d been sleeping on the futon for the last few nights, anyway. And today, he was taking his time and enjoying the morning. Something felt like it was about to change. He was nearly manic (maybe he needed lithium? Say, where’s that Nirvana album?) and had been buzzing around the apartment for awhile.

Sausage sizzled on the stove, patties popping and crackling in savory grease. Ethan turned off the faucet and patted his hands dry on the dishtowel, then pushed the lever on the toaster. The element began its orange glow. He headed around the corner, through the small living room, and into the bathroom. There, he filled his hand with shaving cream. He looked at the mirror, through the water drop splotches, and focused on the reflection of his right hand, full of foamy white.

His left hand cleared a spot on the sink counter. Rather than spreading the foam on his face, Ethan smeared the shaving cream all over the countertop. He used the edge of his hand to make rows, shallow divots really, in the soapy mess. Some of the rows needed to be deeper, and a finger came into play. Eventually, the bathroom countertop was a white mass run through with a grid the color of the faux marble underneath. Ethan looked up at the mirror again, this time at his own face, and then turned and marched to the kitchen.

Once there, he took up the spatula. The toast had yet to pop, though it should have long before. Two of the sausage patties had curled and were starting to blacken, but one was still a perfectly flattened disc. Ethan slid the spatula beneath it and lifted, carried it through the living room, still sputtering and dripping grease. He brought it into the bathroom and carefully set it in the center of the shaving cream map he’d made… that’s what it looked like, he realized… a map of a town.

As the black smoke pouring from the toaster set off the smoke detector , Ethan blinked and stood back from his creation.

“This means something.”