“Nah... you know. Sort of. Well,” Adrian begins, compulsively scratching his chest.
Ove observes him for half a minute or so. Takes another mouthful of his coffee.
Nods irritably, like someone squeezing an avocado and finding it overly ripe.
He forcefully presses his cup of coffee into the hands of the boy, and then steps forward to unhitch the bicycle.
Turns it upside down and opens the toolbox the youth has brought from the café.
“Didn’t your dad ever teach you how to fix a bike?” he says without looking at Adrian, while he hunches over the punctured tire.
“My dad’s in the slammer,” Adrian replies almost inaudibly and scratches his shoulder,
looking around as if he’d like to find a big black hole to sink into.
Ove stops himself, looks up, and gives him an evaluating stare. The boy stares at the ground.
Ove clears his throat. “It’s not so bloody difficult,” he mutters at long last and gestures at Adrian to sit on the ground.
It takes them ten minutes to repair the puncture. Ove barks monosyllabic instructions; Adrian remains silent throughout.
But he’s attentive and dextrous and in a certain sense does not make a complete fool of himself, Ove has to admit.
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