Mutters “idiots” at the closed window just to be on the safe side.
Then goes into his living room and stares up at his ceiling.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He loses himself in his own thoughts. Floats away, as if in a mist.
He’s never been the sort of man who does that, has never been a daydreamer, but lately it’s as if something’s twisted up in his head.
He’s having increasing difficulty concentrating on things. He doesn’t like it at all.
When the doorbell goes it’s like he’s waking up from a warm slumber.
He rubs his eyes hard, looks around as if worried that someone may have seen him.
The doorbell rings again. Ove turns around and stares at the bell as if it should be ashamed of itself.
He takes a few steps into the hall, noting that his body is as stiff as set plaster.
He can’t tell if the creaking is coming from the floorboards or himself.
“And what is it now?” he asks the door before he’s even opened it, as if it had the answer.
“What is it now?” he repeats as he throws the door open so hard
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