“It’s my girlfriend’s bike,” he mumbles at last. He says it more with resignation than indignation.
His sneakers are too big and his jeans too small, Ove notes.
His tracksuit jacket is pulled over his chin to protect him against the cold.
His emaciated peach-fuzzed face is covered in blackheads
and his hair looks as if someone saved him from drowning in a barrel by pulling him up by his locks.
“Where does she live, then?” With profound exertion, as if he’s been shot with a tranquillizer dart,
the creature points with his whole arm towards the house at the far end of Ove’s street.
Where those communists who pushed through the garbage sorting reform live with their daughters. Ove nods cautiously.
“She can pick it up in the bike shed, then,” says Ove, tapping melodramatically
at the sign prohibiting bicycles from being left in the area, before turning around and heading back towards his house.
“Grumpy old bastard!” the youth yells behind him. “Shhh!” utters his soot-eyed companion.
Ove doesn’t answer. He walks past the sign clearly prohibiting motor vehicles from entering the residential area.
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