He nods, rubbing himself around his eyes. “I went dancing last night,” he says, smiling gratefully
as Parvaneh with the deftness of a fellow conspirator hauls out a wet-wipe from her handbag and offers it to him.
Ove nods and goes back to his coffee-making. “And do you also have problems with bicycles and love and girls?” he asks absentmindedly.
“No, no, not with bicycles anyway. And not with love either, I suppose. Well, not with girls, anyway.” He chuckles.
Ove turns on the percolator and, once it begins to splutter, turns around and leans against the inside of the counter
as if this is the most natural thing in the world in a café where one doesn’t work.
“Bent, are you?” “OVE!” says Parvaneh and slaps him on the arm.
Ove snatches back his arm and looks very offended. “What?!”
“You don’t say... you don’t call it that,” Parvaneh says, clearly unwilling to pronounce the word again.
“Queer?” Ove offers. Parvaneh tries to hit his arm again but Ove is too quick.
“Don’t talk like that!” she orders him. Ove turns to the sooty boy, genuinely puzzled.
“Can’t one say ‘bent’? What are you supposed to say nowadays?”
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