“I’m... you know... I’m not so good at reading and writing and all that.”
Ove almost says, “I’d never have guessed,” but he leaves it.
The youth twists awkwardly. Runs his hand through his hair, somewhat disoriented, as if he’s hoping to find the appropriate words up there somewhere.
“She’s the only teacher I ever had who didn’t think I was thick as a plank,” he mumbles, almost choking on his emotion.
She got me reading that... Shakespeare, you know. I didn’t know I could even read, sort of thing.
“She got me reading the most hard-core thick book an’ all. It felt really shit when I heard she died, you know.
Ove doesn’t answer. The youth looks down at the ground. Shrugs. “That’s it...” He’s silent.
And then they both stand there, the fifty-nine-year-old and the teenager, a few yards apart, kicking at the snow.
As if they were kicking a memory back and forth, a memory of a woman who insisted on seeing more potential in certain men than they saw in themselves.
Neither of them knows what to do with their shared experience. “What are you doing with that bike?” says Ove at last.
“I promised to fix it up for my girlfriend. She lives there,” the youth answers,
nodding at the house at the far end of their row, opposite Anita and Rune’s place.
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