“Good Go— are you crying now?” Ove asks in amazement.
“I’M NOT BLOODY CRYING!” she howls, her tears spattering over the dashboard.
Ove leans back and looks down at his knee. Fingers the end of the paper baton.
“It’s just such a strain, this, do you understand?” she sobs and leans her forehead against the wheel as if hoping it might be soft and fluffy.
I’m sort of PREGNANT! I’m just a bit STRESSED, can no one show a bit of understanding for a pregnant bloody woman who’s a bit STRESSED?!”
Ove twists uncomfortably in the passenger seat. She punches the steering wheel several times,
mumbles something about how all she wants is to “drink some bloody lemonade,”
flops her arms over the top of the steering wheel, buries her face in her sleeves, and starts crying again.
The SUV behind them honks until it sounds as if the Finland ferry is about to run them down.
And then something in Ove snaps. He throws the door open, gets out of the car, walks slowly around the SUV, and rips the driver’s door open.
Have you never been a student driver or what?” The driver doesn’t have time to answer.
“You stupid little bastard!” Ove roars in the face of the shaven-headed young man with throat tattoos, his spittle cascading over their seats.
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