“I’m the driver,” says the Lanky One expansively. “Oh, really? Doesn’t look like it!” rages the pregnant woman,
who is probably a foot and a half shorter than him. She tries to slap his arm with both hands.
“And who’s this?” Ove asks, staring at her. “This is my wife.” He smiles.
“Don’t be so sure it’ll stay that way,” she snaps, her pregnant belly bouncing up and down.
It’s not as easy as it loo—the Lanky One tries to say, but he’s immediately cut short.
I said RIGHT! But you went on backing up to the LEFT! You don’t listen! You NEVER listen!”
After that, she immerses herself in half a minute’s worth of haranguing
in what Ove can only assume to be a display of the complex vocabulary of Arabic cursing.
The husband just nods back at her with an indescribably harmonious smile.
The very sort of smile that makes decent folk want to slap Buddhist monks in the face, Ove thinks to himself.
“Oh, come on. I’m sorry,” he says cheerfully, hauling out a tin of chewing tobacco from his pocket and packing it in a ball the size of a walnut.
“It was only a little accident, we’ll sort it out!” Ove looks at the Lanky One
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