Does it really have to be so difficult to kill yourself without constantly being disturbed?
“What?” fumes Ove as he flings the door open.
The Lanky One only manages by a whisker to pull his big head back and avoid an impact with his face.
“Hi!” the Pregnant One exclaims cheerfully beside him, though a foot and a half lower down. Ove looks down at her, then up at him.
The Lanky One is busy touching every part of his face with some reluctance,
as if to check that every protuberance is still where it should be.
“This is for you,” she says in a friendly sort of voice, and then shoves a blue plastic box into Ove’s arms.
Ove looks skeptical. “Cookies,” she explains encouragingly. Ove nods slowly, as if to confirm this.
“You’ve really dressed up,” she says with a smile. Ove nods again.
And then they stand there, all three of them, waiting for someone to say something.
In the end she looks at the Lanky One and shakes her head with resignation.
“Oh, please, will you stop fidgeting with your face, darling?” she whispers and gives him a push in the side.
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