Ove makes a courageous attempt to point threateningly at her. But to his own dismay he feels it’s not as convincing as he might have hoped.
There are no have-tos around here. I’m not some bloody mobility service!” he manages to say at last.
But she just squeezes her index finger and thumb even harder around the bridge of her nose.
And nods, as if she has not in any way listened to what he just said.
She waves, with irritation, towards the garage and the plastic tube on the floor spewing out exhaust fumes thicker and thicker against the ceiling.
“I don’t have time to fuss about this anymore. Get things ready so we can leave. I’ll go and get the children.”
“The CHILDREN???” Ove shouts after her, without getting any kind of answer.
She’s already swanned off on those tiny feet that look wholly undersized for that large pregnant bump,
disappearing around the corner of the bicycle shed and down towards the houses.
Ove stays where he is, as if waiting for someone to catch up with her and tell her that actually Ove had not finished talking.
But no one does. He tucks his fists into his belt and throws a glance at the tube on the floor.
It’s actually not his responsibility if people can’t manage to stay on the ladders they borrow from him—that’s his own view.
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