He who always used to nag at her about being late. Now he stands here himself, apparently quite incapable of following her as he’d planned.
“It’s just been bloody mayhem,” he mumbles to the stone. And then he’s silent again.
He doesn’t know what happened to him after her funeral.
The days and weeks floated together in such a way, and in such utter silence, that he could hardly describe what exactly he was doing.
Before Parvaneh and that Patrick backed into his mailbox he could barely remember saying a word to another human being since Sonja died.
Some evenings he forgets to eat. That’s never happened before, as far as he can remember.
Not since he sat down with her on that train almost forty years ago.
As long as Sonja was there they had their routines. Ove got up at quarter to six, made coffee, went off for his inspection.
By half past six Sonja had showered and then they had breakfast and drank coffee. Sonja had eggs; Ove had bread.
At five past seven, Ove carried her to the passenger seat of the Saab, stowed her wheelchair in the trunk, and gave her a lift to school.
Then he drove to work. At quarter to ten they took coffee breaks separately.
Sonja took milk in her coffee; Ove had it black. At twelve they had lunch. At quarter to three another coffee break.
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