Read by Sophie Cartman
“Two oat milk vanilla iced lattes, please. Double shots.”
“Two iced lattes … anything else I can get for you today?” The barista looked around – presumably for the recipient of the second coffee.
“Nope, just those, thanks.”
“And the name?”
“Olivia, thanks…” she looked at his name tag, “Evan.” A good name, nice and even. She looked down again, and a packet of cookies caught her eye: ‘JUST 80 CALORIES’ they claimed, and there were two of them. “Actually, I’ll have these as well.” she said, sliding them onto the counter.
“Could you make that £8, please? On card.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Evan didn’t look thankful. The card machine beeped at her, and she released her thumbs from their death grip, knuckles slowly regaining their colour as she rotated them, before pulling a joint account card from a card holder in the left pocket of her jeans.
“I’ll do £4 on this one please, and the same on here.”
She pulled an identical billfold from her right pocket and withdrew a second card. Evan blinked, but didn’t say anything, taking the card machine back and tapping on it for a few seconds. He handed it to her, the screen reading £4.00. Olivia breathed in and out twice and tapped both cards before replacing them in their respective holders and putting them simultaneously back into her pockets. Her coffees were waiting, and as she walked across to get to them, Evan’s voice drifted over to her:
“Sorry about the delay, what can I get for you?”
*
Olivia walked out, six steps to the door, and turned left. It was a two-minute walk to the bus stop, and the paving stones were lined up evenly all the way there. As she walked, she sipped her coffees, alternating between them as she watched her feet, making sure she was only stepping on every other slab. They were slick with rain from the previous night, but it had slowed to a mere drizzle – a fact she was thankful for. It was hard to carry two umbrellas as well as two coffees.
After a near miss with a boy on a scooter, Olivia sat at the bus stop with eleven other people milling around. With her it made twelve – which was good – but there were six other women, and only five men. Olivia squeezed her thumbs and started counting the pigeons up the road. Two. Four. Six. Eight. They were eating what looked like leftover Pringles. She liked Pringles, they were easy to count and almost always had an even number in the can.
Feeling suddenly peckish, Olivia put her two coffees down, one either side, and wriggled out of her backpack to retrieve the cookies from between her water bottles. She held them in both hands as she counted the chocolate chips, then took a bite.
The number 18 bus pulled to a stop in front of her and she put the half-eaten cookies back in her bag. She didn’t move as the people ahead filed on, tapping their cards without making eye-contact with the driver. One particularly sodden woman shot her a glance, looking pointedly at the bench with her coffees on and shaking her head, but Olivia didn’t notice, checking her muted reflection in the window of the bus. She ran her fingers down the centre of her head, pulling at the dark strands of her hair to ensure they were separated evenly. She blinked slowly, breathing in and out twice before shrugging her backpack on again and walking towards the bus. She placed her coffees on the floor and stood up, slipping her hands into her pockets as the bus driver peered over at her.
“You alright, love?” he said.
“Just got my hands full, one second.” Olivia responded. Cards in hand, she’d just swiped the first when the clock on the scanner ticked over from 10:02 to 10:03.
“Shit.” said Olivia. “Fuck.”
“Is everything alright?” The driver looked concerned. “You’ve paid, love, it went through fine.”
Olivia didn’t respond, crushing her thumbs into her palms as she stared at the clock, waiting for it to tick back onto an even number. The driver waved his hand in front of her face, still talking, but she ignored him, counting under her breath. Fourteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Her thoughts screamed at her; eyes glued to the glowing green numbers on the tiny screen.
Precisely sixty seconds later – though it felt like hours – Olivia spoke.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
The words were quiet, said out of habit more than remorse. She quickly scanned her other card across the faded yellow plastic surface, hearing the familiar beep and finally releasing her thumbs.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to get off,” the driver said, “I don’t think you’re fit to ride.” He eyed her, watching for another outburst.
“No, it’s fine, I just had to wait for oh-four you see.” Olivia bent down again to pick up her coffees.
“Off. Now.” the driver said firmly, “You’ve held me up long enough.”
Sitting once again at the bus stop, Olivia watched as the buses came and went. There was a number 47, going to the stop she needed. Preposterous, of course. A second number 18 – a single decker this time. Out of the question. She finished her coffees, the caffeine causing her leg to jitter. She bounced the other one along with it, squeezing her thumbs whenever they went out of sync.
10:44, a third number 18. Finally. Two more tickets. A buttock on each seat.
*
“I’m sorry I‘m late, Doctor Paterson, there was a mishap with the buses, is there still time for our session?” Olivia didn’t see the point in explaining, people never understood. He’d just mock her again.
“Not a problem, you cancelled our last session since it took place on the fifth of the month so I put aside some extra time for you today. Have a seat. Shall we get started?”
Olivia perched herself on the cream sofa, and the old doctor sank into the chair behind his desk. “So, Even Numbers,” he started, “why were you really late?”
Olivia recounted the tale of her morning, then showed him her rucksack, with all its duplicates.
“I still can’t help it.” she said.
“Did you try those breathing exercises I showed you?” said the doctor. Internally, Olivia sighed: everybody breathed, and she’d worked out exactly how often to take a breath years ago.
“They didn’t help much. My thumbs feel a little better, though. Sometimes I can breathe instead of squeezing them.” It was a lie, but showing Doctor Paterson some progress was better than nothing at all. It might get him to suggest something more useful. She could hope.
“I see, that’s rather … odd.” He chuckled to himself, stopping when he saw Olivia clenching her fists, thumbs clasped inside them. “Ah, a physical response even to that, I’m sorry for setting you off.” Doctor Paterson smiled. He looked down, rummaging around in his drawer. “We’re going to try something different today, Olivia.” He looked back up, something clutched in his hand, and she strained to see what it was.
“Okaaaay.” She drew the word out; Doctor Paterson’s suggestions hadn’t been great so far.
“So, you only have one backpack.” he said.
“It has two straps, four pockets and it fits more stuff in it. Plus it sits evenly on my back.” Olivia recited. It hadn’t been easy for her to accept the bag, but it was better than a handbag, and easier to hold. She didn’t want to start second-guessing it again.
“What about your nose?” he said.
“What about it?”
“Your nose. You only have one, right?” It wasn’t a question.
“Two nostrils.” she said tightly. Her thumbs were inching towards her palms again. This wasn’t helpful.
“One mouth?”
“Two lips. And my teeth are perfectly even.” It had cost a fortune in dental fees, and the headgear hurt like hell each night but still, it was worth it. She was beginning to question why she was still here. Weren’t therapists supposed to help you?
“Only got one tongue, though.” he countered, “can’t make that even, can you?”
Olivia squeezed what little life remained in her thumbs.
“Easy.” Doctor Paterson reached out to her, opening his hand to reveal a little multicoloured stress ball, its patchwork pattern criss-crossing with no mind for logic or reason. He probably made it, thought Olivia. “This might help you.”
“That is hideous, why would I want that? It’s uneven as shit.”
“Regardless, I want you to take it. We’re going to try something, Olivia, and this odd little ball is the key.”
She winced at the word again.
“How is that going to help me? Just looking at it is making my head hurt.”
“Just hear me out. Every time you want to make something even, I want you to try making it odd instead. And each time you want to squeeze those poor thumbs of yours, squeeze this little guy.”
Olivia looked at the ball on the desk. It was worth a shot, she decided. It couldn’t exactly get much worse.
“Can I have two?” she asked.
“I only have the one, unfortunately.” replied Doctor Paterson, “I suppose you’ll just have to make do. I’ll see you again in a month, see Jane on your way out, she’ll book you in.”
“Can it be two months?” Olivia asked. The doctor just shook his head.
*
Ball in hand, Olivia left the office. When she got to the front desk, she took out one card, the doctor’s condescending voice ringing in her ears. The multicoloured monstrosity was constricted in a death grip in her other hand. She couldn’t bring herself to just use one, and pulled the second card out, paying half on each. In her hand the ball mocked her, and she resisted the urge to throw the ugly little thing across the lobby.
Outside, on a whim, she headed the other way up the road, walking into a little cocktail bar. It had the word ‘one’ in the name, and the ball found itself suffocating in her fist. Olivia found herself ordering an espresso martini. That was what she needed, more coffee.
The man behind the bar told her it was happy hour, and she could have two for the price of one. She wondered what was happy about drinking alone in a bar after a therapy session at midday.
A single espresso martini sat in front of her, three coffee beans perched on its creamy foam, and she put the patchwork stress ball on the bar next to it. Two deep, heavy breaths, and she took her first sip.
She paid with one card this time, thanking the bartender before she left. He told her it had been a pleasure. She knew he was lying.
*
The next month passed in a blur as Olivia made herself odd. First, she’d decided to take the duplicate items from her room and move them into the ‘office.’ It now housed a mirror, dresser, TV and hairdryer, but it wasn’t like she got much work done in there anyway.
A week later, she was setting her microwave to odd numbers, her TV volume said 17 and she was going by ‘Liv’. Olivia had an even number of letters, and that simply wouldn’t do. She put her hair into a side part and got one ear pierced. She’d been too scared to get a tattoo: at least a piercing could close up with time. Her alarms were now set for 8:01, 8:03 and 8:05.
Another week passed, and Liv now hated shoes; why did they always come in pairs? She’d resorted to wearing one of two different pairs on each foot, the same with socks. It made her limp, but having an uneven gait now felt good. Anything even disgusted her. She started winking each eye individually – a skill she’d never even considered learning – as taking her eyes off the ball, even for a moment seemed to invite that mocking laughter. Throughout it all, the little multicoloured ball sat smugly in her pocket or bag, Doctor Paterson’s chuckles ringing in her ears.
*
She was late to her next therapy appointment too. The doctor chuckled and said, “Couldn’t get the odd bus again? Did the ball not help, Olivia?”
“It’s Liv, now, and that’s what I’m here about, Doc. I think it might have helped a little too much.” She sat on the arm of the cream sofa, dangling one leg.
“How so? You no longer need everything to be even, sounds like it worked a treat.” He smiled across at her. “I told you it would.”
She shook her head, brandishing the ball.
“This thing is evil, doc. Every time I even-” she stopped, stuffing it back into her pocket. “think about anything… not odd, it mocks me. The first month was okay, it got me into a balance. The problem started to go away. I could go out with my friends without counting how many were going to be there. I could take public transport without looking at the time. I bought a car since I didn’t need to have two of them. I finally felt like I was living a full life. Now, I can’t think about multiples of two; I solved one problem and ended up with a worse one! I don’t think you’re much of a therapist, doctor!” She spat the last word. “Breathing and weird balls? Are you just making things up as you go along?” Her rant over, she stopped to take a long, drawn-out breath.
“These things can happen,” Doctor Paterson shrugged. “I was worried it wouldn’t stick, but it seems like all you need to do is find that balance again. It can’t be that hard, you did it once already. Go back to being even for a while, that might work.”
“You don’t understand, doc” Liv was livid. “It’s not like I can just go back. Odd numbers are all I have now. The other ones… don’t work anymore.”
She picked up her backpack, slinging its single remaining strap over her shoulder, and turned to leave, looking back one final time at the old man.
“I literally can’t even.”
(c) James Odunsi, 2022
James Odunsi is a Creative Writing and Publishing student at City and spends most of his time trying (and failing) to keep bad puns out of his writing.
Sophie Cartman studied American Theatre Arts at Rose Bruford College. Theatre credits include appearances at Manor at The National, Soho, The Space, ADC & Arcola theatres, The Crucible at Buxton Opera House and Death of a Salesman at the Piccadilly Theatre. TV/Film/Radio credits include Doc Martin, Eastenders, a BBC short film by Eimear McBride, indie feature Four O'Clock Flowers, Suspicion on Discovery ID, Monster 1983- an audible play, and Tokyo Murder - BBC Radio 4 play.
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