Ove had never been asked how he lived before he met her. But if anyone had asked him, he would have answered that he didn’t.
On Saturday evening he put on his father’s old brown suit. It was tight around his shoulders.
Then he ate two sausages and seven potatoes, which he prepared in the little kitchenette in his room,
before doing his rounds of the house to put in a couple of screws, which the old lady had asked him to do.
“Are you meeting someone?” she asked, pleased to see him coming down the stairs. She had never seen him wearing a suit.
Ove nodded gruffly. “Yeah,” he said in a way that could be described as either a word or an inhalation.
The older woman nodded and probably tried to hide a little smile.
“It must be someone very special if you’ve dressed yourself up like that,” she said.
Ove inhaled again and nodded curtly. When he was at the door, she called out from the kitchen. “Flowers, Ove!”
Perplexed, Ove stuck his head around the partition wall and stared at her.
“She’d probably like some flowers,” the old woman declared with some emphasis. Ove cleared his throat and closed the front door.
For more than fifteen minutes he stood waiting for her at the station in his tight-fitting suit and his new-polished shoes.
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