“Things don’t work when you’re not at home,” he mutters, and kicks a bit at the frozen ground.
His wife doesn’t answer. “There’ll be snow tonight,” says Ove.
They said on the news there wouldn’t be snow, but, as Ove often points out, whatever they predict is bound not to happen.
He tells her this; she doesn’t answer. He puts his hands in his pockets and gives her a brief nod.
“It’s not natural rattling around the house on my own all day when you’re not here. It’s no way to live. That’s all I have to say.”
She doesn’t reply to that either. He nods and kicks the ground again.
He can’t understand people who long to retire. How can anyone spend their whole life longing for the day when they become superfluous?
Wandering about, a burden on society, what sort of man would ever wish for that?
Staying at home, waiting to die. Or even worse: waiting for them to come and fetch you and put you in a home.
Being dependent on other people to get to the toilet. Ove can’t think of anything worse.
His wife often teases him, says he’s the only man she knows who’d rather be laid out in a coffin than travel in a mobility service van.
And she may have a point there. Ove had risen at quarter to six.
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