The one where those recycling types live when they’re not in Thailand or wherever they go.
“Or, you know. She’s not my girlfriend yet. But I’m thinking I’m wanting her to be. Sort of thing.”
Ove scrutinizes the youth as middle-aged men often scrutinize younger men who seem to invent their own grammar as they go along.
“So have you got any tools, then?” he asks. The youth shakes his head.
“How are you going to repair a bike without tools?” Ove marvels, more with genuine surprise than agitation.
The youth shrugs. “Dunno.” “Why did you promise to repair it, then?”
The youth kicks the snow. Scratches his face with his entire hand, embarrassed. “Because I love her.”
Ove can’t quite decide what to say to that one. So he rolls up the local newspaper and envelope and slaps it into his palm, like a baton.
“I have to get going,” the youth mumbles almost inaudibly and makes a movement to turn around again.
“Come over after work, then, and I’ll get the bike out for you.” Ove’s words seem to pop up out of nowhere.
“But you have to bring your own tools,” he adds. The youth brightens up. “You serious, man?”
Ove continues slapping the paper baton into his hand. The youth swallows.
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