My therapist is a slow-moving elderly woman. The ten seconds that pass from the moment I ring the bell to his house until he opens the door turns into ten heavy steps he takes along the corridor, which I count from the other side of the door. But the other day, she took the same route in seven steps, as if her legs had grown. I told him:
-What you normally do in ten steps, you did in seven steps.
I heard her laugh
“Don’t tell me you counted my steps,” she said later.
“I’m telling you all,” I replied. For example, I count my fingers several times a day. I made a mistake once and got nine but I wasn’t worried because I imagined it was the product of a mistake. I counted again and they’re out of nine again. I was scared too. I remember being at the cinema with my wife and left the room to count them in the light of the hall. Ten people were there.
-What else is important?
-I’m telling you everything. I had dinner at a friend’s house yesterday and used his bathroom. I counted the tiles on the walls.
-All?
-Yes, all of them.
Out of curiosity, how many were they?
-Sorry, I don’t like to divulge my findings, it’s bad luck or so I think. I also know the number of steps leading up from the portal to this floor.
-Walk?
-Always to check if none is missing.
-What will you do if one day is missing?
– Tell me.
-What if they’re still missing?
I didn’t know what to say, because that would mean such an irregularity in the structure of reality that it would drive me crazy. So, counting my fingers, I remained silent in agony at this possibility, which came to my mind. There were ten people. Everything was fine. So he gave us time. Of course, I went down the stairs and checked if the number of steps was still stable. I celebrated with a beer at a nearby bar.