She’ll be exhausted by lunchtime, and feels her stomach tighten with dread at all the long hours in front of the computer awaiting her, trying to find the words she needs to write. They don’t come anymore, and she almost can’t remember the days when writing was something joyful, when the words seemed to scatter from her fingertips. She’ll return to bed in the late afternoon, reading, checking her phone, listening to music, crying, the loneliness and yearning as insistent as bacteria burrowing into her bones. But then sleep does come, and Leah is lulled by dreams. The vision of bacteria inside her body somehow seeps into her dream, a strange world where she’s carried through narrow maroon canals as if on a boat, before being expelled into cool air through a purple-edged wound.

5

Kristina

All the jokes about Mondays fall flat on me – I’ve always liked Mondays, a fresh start every week. In my line of work, I sometimes feel worn down and jaded by the time Friday rolls around and it takes the weekend to process and clear my head. But I love what I do, and by Monday morning, I can’t wait to get back to my office. I rent a pleasant, airy space at the pedestrian end of Hegdehaugsveien, in what used to be a large turn-of-the-century apartment, together with two other therapists and an osteopath. We call ourselves Homansbyen Terapisenter and share a kitchen and bathroom. We’ve become friendly over the years, sometimes heading to Lorry’s, the pub on the corner, for a drink after work on Thursdays, and quite frequently passing new clients on to one another when someone isn’t quite a match.

On Monday mornings I’m here alone, sometimes for several hours – my colleagues have a policy of not booking clients early on Mondays. So do I, but I still come in early because I love this time to catch up with myself and prepare for the week ahead. It’s important to me to always be organized; it prevents so much chaos. Eirik makes fun of me for it sometimes, saying it’s almost creepy how one could open any drawer in our house at any time and it would always be immaculately ordered. Where do you keep the loose ends, the mess, the stuff you want to keep hidden? he’ll ask, laughing. I don’t; I go through the mess, and then I get rid of it. I aspire to achieve a mind and a life as transparent as my brightly lit, meticulously ordered closet with neat, instantly recognizable thoughts and feelings sorted like clothes in open shelves.