A MAN CALLED OVE
Ove knew very well that her friends couldn’t understand why she married him.
He couldn’t really blame them. People said he was bitter.
Maybe they were right. He’d never reflected much on it. And in this instance he could totally agree with them.
People also called him antisocial. Ove assumed this meant he wasn’t overly keen on people.
More often than not people were out of their minds. Ove wasn’t one to engage in small talk.
He had come to realize that, these days at least, this was a serious character flaw.
Now one had to be able to blabber on about anything with any old sod who happened to stray within an arm’s length of you purely because it was “nice.”
Ove didn’t know how to do it. Perhaps it was the way he’d been raised.
Maybe men of his generation had never been sufficiently prepared for a world
where everyone spoke about doing things even though it no longer seemed worth doing them.
Nowadays people stood outside their newly refurbished houses and boasted as if they’d built them with their own bare hands,
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