He woke up at three in the morning and went down to the kitchen. The fridge light was the only light. He watched himself from somewhere slightly behind his own right shoulder pour a glass of water and drink it standing at the counter. The clock on the stove said 3:14, which was a number. The kitchen was the kitchen. The water was water. Everything was correct and also strangely untethered, as though he were observing a man who looked like him do things that were technically his. He rinsed the glass. The hand rinsing the glass was also his. The feeling did not pass. He went back upstairs inside this slightly-off body.
