◉ 007 | OCD (Obsessive–Compulsive Disorder)

Wed, 5 Feb 2025

12:07 pm

12:11 pm

12:13 pm

Lucie calls. I miss it.

She texts the same minute:

12:14 pm

12:20 pm

12:21 pm

12:24 pm

I see Lucie’s text and reply:

I take pictures every day.

One hundred and eight. Give or take.

12:26 pm

12:34 pm

12:46 pm

I find three bottle caps sunbathing on a bench.

The middle one reads:

Aussie Sheena Reyes pulled on a world record 36 pairs of undies in one minute.

12:48 pm

12:51 pm

1:03 pm

I ring the bell.

Lucie opens the door.

“Sorry again. We’re almost there.”

Inside: kitchen, dining, and lounge in one space.

Three suitcases. Spray bottles. Vacuum cleaner.

Her mother folds laundry. Her father pulls the blind cord.

1:07 pm

Lucie says, “We can start with bedroom two. It’s on the left.”

I ask, “It’s ready, right?”

She confirms.

1:08 pm

The room is dim. Quiet. Still.

Two narrow windows, one in each corner.

The view isn’t great.

The concrete of the building next door presses in.

A yellow lamp on the right. A midnight blue guitar on the left.

1:10 pm

I start shooting.

1:14 pm

Lucie walks past me toward the bathroom.

On her way in, she taps six times

with the tip of her foot—

back and forth across the thin metal trim

between the hallway wooden floor and the bathroom tiles.

Tap on the wood. Tap on the tile.

Tap on the wood. Tap on the tile.

Tap on the wood. Tap on the tile.

Then she walks in.

1:15 pm

On her way out, she does it again.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I have OCD,” she says.

“Serious one.”

I pause for a second.

“There was this Croatian tennis player—

Goran Ivanišević.

He avoided stepping on the court lines after the break.

Said it was bad luck.

Or bad karma. Something like that.”

She says nothing. Just leaves.

1:24 pm

She reappears.

“Can I show you the ensuite? I’m not sure about the towels.”

She walks into the master bedroom.

Wood floor to carpet.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She steps into the ensuite.

Carpet to tile floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

1:25 pm

Lucie fixes the towels.

Then comes back out.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I ask, “Is it the trim between rooms? Or different floor material?”

1:26 pm

She says, “No. It’s the doorway.”

“I tap every time I walk through the door.”

“I’m flying to Adelaide today. Therapy.”

“At my worst, I tapped a hundred times. Every door.”

“It’s getting better.”

1:27 pm

“I am so proud of you,” I say.

1:28 pm

Her father says something from the kitchen. French.

She replies in French and leaves.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

2:02 pm

Lucie walks me to the door.

Shakes my hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

I leave.

2:13 pm

2:15 pm

2:22 pm

2:25 pm

2:28 pm

2:31 pm

2:34 pm

2:35 pm

2:37 pm

My train arrives.