The cat jumps off the windowsill in the living room and goes into the kitchen.
Bad loser, thinks Ove and goes to the front door. It’s been years since he last made a bet with someone about what time the mail would come.
He used to make bets with Rune when they were on vacation in the summers,
which grew so intensive that they developed complex systems of marginal extensions and half minutes to determine who was most accurate.
That was how it was back in those days. The mail arrived at twelve o’clock on the dot,
so one needed precise demarcations to be able to say who had guessed right.
Nowadays it isn’t like that. Nowadays the mail can be delivered halfway through the afternoon any old way it pleases.
The post office takes care of it when it feels like it and you just have to be grateful and that’s it.
Ove tried to make bets with Sonja after he and Rune stopped talking.
But she didn’t understand the rules. So he gave up.
The youth barely manages to avoid being knocked off the steps when Ove throws the door open.
Ove looks at him in surprise. He’s wearing a postman’s uniform.
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