A Man Called Ove

A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER
Ove is fifty-nine. He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of,
as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight.
He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables.
Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.
“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.
The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease.
He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.
“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that...?”
Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box,
a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.
“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?” The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head. “Yes... or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad.”
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