Odd Ichiko
Ichiko, like a good accountant — or rather, an obsessive one — counts everything.
On February 10th, she counted the times she had physical contact with people. When …
… her fingers stroked the palm of a FamilyMart clerk as she paid for her breakfast.
… she squeezed her way into the subway train in the morning rush hour. A schoolgirl bumped her head against Ichiko’s chest. A housewife grazed Ichiko’s arm with her breast. A salaryman accidentally — at least she wanted to think so — brushed her buttocks with the back of his hand.
… she gave a last-minute tax return to her manager.
… she got the same tax return back with a one-hour scold.
… her palm felt the fingers of a 7-Eleven clerk while paying for her lunch.
… her co-worker Nishikata, despite her previous death threats against him, rested his hand on her shoulder.
… she shoved her way into the subway train in the evening rush hour. Since inside was a jumble of humanity, Ichiko found it impossible to tell how many people had made physical contact with her (or how). So she just counted the parts of her body receiving foreign warmth.
… she had physical contact with yet another clerk while paying for the KFC she’d have for dinner.
… she touched — perhaps for too long — the hand of a handsome man who handed her a flyer.
The final result was 14 times.
On February 12th, Ichiko counted every breath she took, starting with her first exhalation in the morning, then moving on to those she expelled doing the following activities:
Brushing her teeth, washing her face, and tying her hair into a ponytail.
Putting on her office clothes and light makeup.
Trotting from her home to the station.
Buying and eating breakfast.
Arriving at work.
Working.
By the time Ichiko left her workplace, she was short of air and longing for a break. (She wouldn’t be like this if she had counted with her head instead of her mouth.)
But if she quit, she would never find out how many times she breathed per day — wait, there was another way. With what scanty energy remained, Ichiko pulled out her iPhone from her handbag and typed on Google “How many breaths does a person take in a day?” She scrolled down until spotting the average, which took into account some moderate exercise: 17,000–30,000.
February 13th.
Since today’s date was a prime number — therefore, a special one — Ichiko decided to deviate from her routine: instead of counting an activity she executed throughout the day, she would count one she’d done ever since she was conscious.
With this idea still fresh in her mind, after work, she dipped into a Starbucks, ordered a double espresso, and slumped on a stool with a window view (a habit she developed when she used to count passersby). But what to count? While checking her lipstick in her glassy reflection, the answer struck her.
How about the times she had laughed?
Taking another sip of espresso, she set her analytical brain to work. However, she couldn’t for the life of her remember when she had ever laughed.
Oh, yes! When Nishikata — nah, that time was more annoying than amusing.
That’s right. The time her friends — wait, she didn’t have any.
Aha! That day her dog, Bone — no, he died before he could do anything silly.
A balloon of air swelled in Ichiko’s throat, finally blowing out of her mouth as laughter. How funny. She’d been alive for twenty-four years and six months, and she had never laughed — this was her first time. Or was she crying? Perhaps both.
Speaking of crying, how many times had she done it? Counting this would be easier.
When Bone was run over by that Mazda3. (1 time.)
After Ichiko broke up with Hisanori. (4 times.)
After Daishi broke up with her. (3 times.)
After Goro left her for her sister. (2 times.)
While attending her sister’s wedding — hers and Goro’s. (4 times.)
That evening she watched the movie One Litre of Tears. (10 times.)
Wiping tears provoked by opening old wounds, Ichiko made the final mental calculations.
Times she’d laughed: 1
Times she’d cried: 25.
February 14th.
Ichiko visited the Starbucks again to repeat yesterday’s feat.
But what should she count this time? Ichiko glanced around the establishment, hunting for ideas. When she spotted a poster advertising a Valentine’s Day special chocolate drink, one bubbled up in her head.
How many kisses had she ever given or gotten? Taking two sips of her double espresso, she plunged into her memories.
Her 1st kiss — or rather, indirect kiss — was in high school. During lunch break, she leaned against her crush’s desk, then sipped her 7-Up and offered him some from the same straw. He said very naturally, “Okay, thanks,” and drank.
Her 2nd kiss was in university. While wandering the streets alone one Christmas — at the time she had neither friends nor boyfriend, pretty much like the present — she stumbled upon a foreigner, who introduced himself as a YouTuber from Montenegro. That day, he was doing the “Kiss or Slap” challenge, where people choose either to kiss or slap him. In the end, Ichiko picked kiss. (1) because she was alone on Christmas, and (2) because she was alone on Christmas.
Her 3rd happened three years ago when she went alone to a club in Shinjuku. One, two, three, four glasses of vodka later she was listening to an unknown song, dancing unknown steps, and kissing unknown lips. She neither regretted nor relished the experience — because it’d been tasteless. Meaningless.
The 4th (and first with an animal) was with Bone.
The 5th was with Hisanori. Ichiko couldn’t remember their first kiss (the freshness of kissing had already dissipated from her life). However, she could roughly recall how many times they had kissed.
In their first month together, they did it an average of 5 times a day. In the second, that number declined to 3. In the third, it descended to 1. On the third month, it dropped to 0 — because they had become a divided couple. Mentally and physically.
Gulping her caffeinated fuel, she made the math … she’d shared approximately 270 kisses with Hisanori. Adding the previous ones, made it 275.
The same negative kissing trend had repeated with Daishi and Goro (she couldn’t make out why). But with a couple of differences: her relationship lasted two months with the former and two weeks with the latter.
Ichiko tapped her temple. She’d kissed Daishi 240 times and Goro 70 times. That plus all the past kisses would give her the ultimate sum: 585 kisses.
Since kissing was the prelude to lovemaking, why not count the times she had engaged in it? That would be easy, since she’d only had sex with boyfriends, starting with Hisanori.
Her first night with him was two years ago at his apartment. He had invited her there with the excuse of not being able to bring his dog out.
“Sorry, but Tengo goes crazy when he sees a cat,” he told her, “like a goat in mating season — come to think of it, he may have a thing for cats.”
To which Ichiko replied, “Okay, let’s sleep together.” True, Hisanori was trying to trick her, but she couldn’t fool herself anymore. If she didn’t become more proactive — or provocative — she would reach her thirties single and still a virgin.
With this in mind, or rather hoping she hadn’t lost her mind, she followed Hisanori home and made love with him on his futon. Then again in the shower. Then on the futon again. 3 times.
The number three became a common sight in their sex life. After officially being together, they made love 3 times a week, and always using 3 positions: one up, table for two, and sixty-nine. This pattern repeated throughout their three-month relationship (for some reason, without decreasing in number like in the case of the kisses).
Next was Daishi, who’d been a rabbit. He even moved in with Ichiko so they could do it every day. And they did. Once after dinner at 8 p.m. Another time before sleeping at 10 p.m. Another time half asleep at 3 a.m. Finally, they would have a last round (or first one?) in the morning at 7 a.m. Like with her previous relationship, this turned into a solid routine.
Goro, unlike her previous exes, had suggested they only have sex on weekends. “Everything in moderation,” were his words, “especially fornication.” Or perhaps, he’d planned to free up weekdays to screw her sister.
Anyhow, the past didn’t matter now. Only numbers.
After emptying her double espresso in one gulp, Ichiko summed all the times she’d had sexual intercourse.
The result that came up was 283.
February 16th.
Ichiko was counting her steps when she heard a smack and everything became black.
When her eyes hinged open, and the blurriness cleared, the first images that filtered in were a forehead with four deeply etched wrinkles, a head with about eleven strands of hair, and a white necktie with one, two, three … seven slanted black lines.
“She’s awake!” the man yelped, the words echoing around the room — a room with adjustable beds, antiseptic smell, and artificial flowers.
Ichiko was in a hospital.
In a flash, a doctor and two nurses rushed to her bed. They gave her a thorough check-up — luckily, she only had a few bruises and scratches — while she tried to figure out what had happened to her.
Once the hospital staff left, the man bowed to Ichiko and said, “I apologize for all this.” Probably seeing the perplexity in her eyes, he explained, “While you were passing through that crosswalk, I received a text message, so — ”
“You didn’t see the red light?” Ichiko inquired, straightening up on the bed.
“You didn’t see it, but it was my fault too. I didn’t see you.”
Ichiko slapped her forehead. She knew this counting habit would bring her numerous problems. Or reduce her life expectancy.
Without anything else to say, the man who had both saved her and almost killed her said goodbye and gave Ichiko his phone number, promising to compensate her.
She watched him go, before her gaze gradually drifted to a moving stretcher. On it, a woman in her thirties or forties laid with an oxygen mask on her face and an IV connected to the crook of her arm, while her ICU equipment beeped every three seconds.
No doubt, Ichiko could have ended like this. And then saying her last words on her deathbed.
They probably would have focused on numbers instead of words. For instance:
How many times had she loved? 0. True, she’d had three boyfriends but she had never loved any of them. Perhaps because they had never loved her back.
How many goals and dreams had she accomplished? 0. Sure, she liked accounting — sometimes to irrational levels — but it’d never fulfilled her. It was more like a junk food career. A vocational McDonald’s.
How many times had she found a place where she belonged? Once again 0.
How many times had she met people who didn’t find her odd? Also 0.
How many times had she felt lucky? 0.
How many times had she felt pretty? 0.
How many times had she felt happy? 0.
Ichiko dropped on her back and bit off a sigh. Why did the most important facets of her life also have the lowest figures? She had no idea. All she knew was that numbers wouldn’t give her the answer — they never had.
By the way, I’m publishing a short story collection.
