which only men of his generation and from his part of the world seem capable of mastering.
Ove stays where he is, in the center of the floor. The two men watch one another for a minute or so.
One of them a man who can’t bring himself to kick out a homosexual youth from his house, and the other who couldn’t stop himself.
Eventually Ove nods grimly and sits down on one of the bar stools.
He folds his hands together on the counter and gives Amel a dry look.
I wouldn’t be averse to that whiskey now if it’s still on offer.”
Amel’s chest rises and falls in a couple of jerky breaths under the stained shirt.
At first he seems to be considering opening his mouth, but then he thinks again.
In silence he finishes wiping his glasses. Folds up the towel and puts it next to the espresso machine.
Disappears into the kitchen without a word. Comes back with two glasses and a bottle, the letters on the label illegible to Ove.
Puts these down on the counter between them. It is difficult to admit that one is wrong.
Particularly when one has been wrong for a very long time.
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