So he gets something home-cooked now and then,” she used to say.
Ove noticed that they never got the containers back,
adding that maybe the young man hadn’t noticed the difference between the box and the food inside it.
At which point Ove’s wife would tell him that was enough. And then it was enough.
Ove waits until the lunchbox eater has gone before he gets out of the Saab.
He tugs at the handle three times. Closes the garage door behind him. Tugs at the door handle three times.
Walks up the little footpath between the houses. Stops outside the bicycle shed.
There’s a woman’s bicycle leaning up against the wall.
Again. Right under the sign clearly explaining that cycles should not be left in this precise spot.
Ove picks it up. The front tire is punctured. He unlocks the shed and places the bicycle tidily at the end of the row.
He locks the door and has just tugged at it three times when he hears a late-pubescent voice jabbering in his ear.
“Whoa! What the hell’re you doin’?!” Ove turns around and finds himself eye to eye with a whelp standing a few yards away.
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