but only a couple—no need to be lavish about it (“Diesel isn’t free, you know”).
And Ove’s wife does what she always does: nods and agrees that Ove is probably right.
Then she goes around all winter sneakily turning up the radiators. Every year the same bloody thing.
Ove kicks the ground again. He’s considering telling her about the cat.
If you can even call that mangy, half-bald creature a cat.
It was sitting there again when he came back from his inspection, practically right outside their front door.
He pointed at it and shouted so loudly that his voice echoed between the houses.
The cat just sat there, looking at Ove. Then it stood up elaborately, as if making a point of demonstrating that it wasn’t leaving because of Ove,
but rather because there were better things to do, and disappeared around the corner.
Ove decides not to mention the cat to her. He assumes she’ll only be disgruntled with him for driving it away.
If she was in charge the whole house would be full of tramps, whether of the furred variety or not.
He’s wearing his navy suit and has done up the top button of the white shirt.
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