“Putting a bike away in the bike shed.” “You can’t do that!”
On closer inspection he may be eighteen or so, Ove suspects.
More of a stripling than a whelp, in other words, if one wants to be pedantic about it.
“Yes I can.” “But I’m repairing it!” the youth bursts out, his voice rising into falsetto.
“But it’s a lady’s bike,” protests Ove. “Yeah, so what?”
“It can hardly be yours, then,” Ove states condescendingly.
The youth groans, rolling his eyes; Ove puts his hands into his pockets as if this is the end of the matter.
There’s a guarded silence. The lad looks at Ove as if he finds Ove unnecessarily thick.
In return, Ove looks at the creature before him as if it were nothing but a waste of oxygen.
Behind the youth, Ove notices, there’s another youth. Even slimmer than the first one and with black stuff all around his eyes.
The second youth tugs carefully at the first’s jacket and murmurs something about “not causing trouble.”
His comrade kicks rebelliously at the snow, as if it were the snow’s fault.
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