And then gently pushed her index finger into the palm of his hand. And then closed her eyes and died.
Ove stayed there with her hand in his for several hours.
Until the hospital staff entered the room with warm voices and careful movements, explaining that they had to take her body away.
Ove rose from his chair, nodded, and went to the undertakers to take care of the paperwork.
On Sunday she was buried. On Monday he went to work.
But if anyone had asked, he would have told them that he never lived before he met her. And not after either.
A MAN CALLED OVE AND A DELAYED TRAIN
The slightly porky man on the other side of the Plexiglas has back-combed hair and arms covered in tattoos.
As if it isn’t enough to look like someone has slapped a pack of margarine over his head, he has to cover himself in doodles as well.
There’s not even a proper motif, as far as Ove can see, just a lot of patterns.
Is that something an adult person in a healthy state of mind would consent to? Going about with his arms looking like a pair of pajamas?
“Your ticket machine doesn’t work,” Ove informs him.
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