as if the Lanky One has just squatted over the hood of Ove’s car and left a turd on it.
“Sort it out? You’re in my flowerbed!” The Lanky One looks ponderously at the trailer wheels.
“That’s hardly a flowerbed, is it?” He smiles, undaunted, and adjusts his tobacco with the tip of his tongue.
“Naah, come on, that’s just soil,” he persists, as if Ove is having a joke with him.
Ove’s forehead compresses itself into one large, threatening wrinkle. “It. Is. A. Flowerbed.”
The Lanky One scratches his head, as if he’s got some tobacco caught in his tangled hair.
“But you’re not growing anything in it—” “Never you bloody mind what I do with my own flowerbed!”
The Lanky One nods quickly, clearly keen to avoid further provocation of this unknown man.
He turns to his wife as if he’s expecting her to come to his aid. She doesn’t look at all likely to do so.
The Lanky One looks at Ove again. “Pregnant, you know. Hormones and all that...” he tries, with a grin.
The Pregnant One does not grin. Nor does Ove. She crosses her arms. Ove tucks his hands into his belt.
The Lanky One clearly doesn’t know what to do with his massive hands, so he swings them back and forth across his body,
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