I am sitting on the stone parapet of my terrace and cutting apples for compote. The peels and cores go straight into the garden below, and the chunks of apple go into a pot by my side. I cut the first apple in half and then into quarters, and then I cut each quarter in half and then into six chunks. “Six,” I hear myself counting. “Four times six is twenty-four,” I continue. “Since I have four apples,” I conclude, “that’ll add up to ninety-six chunks.” Out of the blue, I get angry with myself. “A monkey with a knack for math,” I growl. “Who the fuck cares how many chunks there are in my compote?!” It takes me a while to calm down and cut the remaining apples without a single thought. When I am finished, I add a bunch of prunes and some honey to the pot. I make sure not to count the prunes. I walk to the kitchen and add some water to the pot. The compote is ready for cooking on the stove next to the kitchen sink. Try as I may, though, the ninety-six chunks are still with me.