The Gift

by Louise Jensen

my therapist, nudges tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and slides a box of Kleenex towards me, as if today will be the day my guilt spews out, coming to rest, putrid and toxic, on the impossibly polished table between us. ‘So, Jenna.’ She shuffles through my file. ‘It’s approaching the six-month anniversary – how do you feel?’ I shrug and pick at a stray thread hanging from my sleeve. The

appointments I was supposed to, yet still I arrive on the dot each week. I guess it’s because I don’t get out much and I do like my routine, my little bit of normality. ‘And socially?’ ‘No.’ I can’t remember the last time I had a night out. I’m only thirty but I feel double that, at least. I wasn’t up to socialising for ages afterwards and now I prefer to be at home. Alone. Safe. ‘Emotionally? Are things