He stops halfway up the paved path between the house and his shed.
He wrinkles his nose in the way men of his age do, the wrinkle traveling across his entire upper body.
Then he sinks down on his knees, puts his face right up close to the paving stones,
which he neatly and without exception removes and re-lays every other year, whether necessary or not.
He sniffs again. Nods to himself. Stands up. His new neighbors are still watching him.
“Piss! There’s piss all over the place here!” Ove says gruffly.
He gesticulates at the paving stones. “O... kay,” says the black-haired woman.
“No! Nowhere is bloody okay around here!” And with that, he goes into his house and closes the door.
He sinks onto the stool in the hall and stays there for a long time.
Bloody woman. Why do she and her family have to come here if they can’t even read a sign right in front of their eyes?
You’re not allowed to drive cars inside the block. Everyone knows that.
Ove goes to hang up his coat on the hook, among a sea of his wife’s overcoats.
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