Sanna and the bank statement

Sanna did not open the bank statement. She hadn't done it for three months. She roughly knew how much was in there. Or rather: she roughly knew how little. And the approximate figure was bad enough without having to see it in black and white once more. So the bills piled up in a heap on the hall table, unopened, and the anxiety piled up with them, a little more with every envelope.

The strange thing was that she wasn't having a particularly hard time, not compared with many others she knew. The pay was enough, mostly. But mostly is a word that leaves generous room for all sorts of catastrophes. Sanna's head willingly filled that room on its own: what if the car breaks down, what if the rent goes up again, what if, what if. She lay awake for evenings on end counting money she didn't even know for sure she had.