“Clear off,” says Ove. The cat gives him a judgmental stare, as if it’s sitting on the decision-making side of the desk at a job interview.
Ove grips the shovel, scoops up some snow, and throws it at the cat, which jumps out of the way and glares indignantly at him.
Spits out a bit of snow. Snorts. Then turns around and pads off again, around the corner of Ove’s shed.
Ove puts his snow shovel to work. It takes him fifteen minutes to free up the paving between the house and the shed.
He works with care. Straight lines, even edges. People don’t shovel snow that way anymore.
Nowadays they just clear a way, they use snowblowers and all sorts of things.
Any old method will do, scattering snow all over the place. As if that was the only thing that mattered in life: pushing one’s way forward.
When he’s done, he leans for a moment against the shovel in a snowdrift on the little pathway.
Balances his body weight on it and watches the sun rising over the sleeping houses.
He’s been awake for most of the night, thinking of ways to die.
He has even drawn some diagrams and charts to clarify the various methods.
After carefully weighing up the pros and cons, he’s accepted that what he’s doing today has to be the best of bad alternatives.
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