gesturing impatiently at Ove as she puts the cat down on his sofa.
“There’ll be no turning up of radiators here,” Ove announces firmly.
He parks himself in the living room doorway and wonders whether she might try to swat him again with the glove
if he tells her at least to put some newspapers under the cat.
When she turns to him again he decides to give it a miss. Ove doesn’t know if he’s ever seen such an angry woman.
“I’ve got a blanket upstairs,” he says at long last, avoiding her gaze by suddenly feeling incredibly interested in the hall lamp.
“Get it then!” Ove looks as if he’s repeating her words to himself, though silently, in an affected, disdainful voice;
but he takes off his shoes and crosses the living room at a cautious distance from her glove-striking range.
All the way up and down the stairs he mumbles to himself about why it has to be so damned difficult to get any peace and quiet on this street.
Upstairs he stops and takes a few deep breaths. The pain in his chest has gone.
His heart is beating normally again. It happens now and then, and he no longer gets stressed about it.
It always passes. And he won’t be needing that heart for very much longer, so it doesn’t matter either way.
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