Feels in his pocket for the envelope. He’s turned out all the lights.
Washed his coffee mug. Put up a hook in his living room. He’s done.
He takes down the rope from the clothes-dryer in the hall.
Gently, with the back of his hand, he caresses her coats one last time.
Then he goes into the living room, ties a noose in the rope, threads it through the hook, climbs up on the stool, and puts his head in the noose.
Kicks the stool away. Closes his eyes and feels the noose closing around his throat like the jaws of a large wild animal.
A MAN WHO WAS OVE AND A PAIR OF HIS FATHER’S OLD FOOTPRINTS
She believed in destiny. That all the roads you walk in life, in one way or another, “lead to what has been predetermined for you.”
Ove, of course, just started muttering under his breath
and got very busy fiddling about with a screw or something whenever she started going on like this.
But he never disagreed with her. Maybe to her destiny was “something”; that was none of his business. But to him, destiny was “someone.”
To lose your family long before you’ve had time to create your own to replace it. It’s a very specific sort of loneliness.
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