He was skeptical about people who came late. “If you can’t depend on someone being on time,
you shouldn’t trust ’em with anything more important either,”
he used to mutter when people came dribbling along with their time cards three or four minutes late, as if this didn’t matter.
As if the railway line would just lie there waiting for them in the morning and not have something better to do.
So for each of those fifteen minutes that Ove stood waiting at the station he was slightly irritated.
And then the irritation turned into a certain anxiety,
and after that he decided that Sonja had only been ribbing him when she’d suggested they should meet.
He had never felt so silly in his entire life. Of course she didn’t want to go out with him, how could he have got that into his head?
His humiliation, when the insight dawned on him, welled up like a stream of lava,
and he was tempted to toss the flowers in the nearest trash can and march off without turning around.
Looking back, he couldn’t quite explain why he stayed. Maybe because he felt, in spite of it all, that an agreement to meet was an agreement.
And maybe there was some other reason. Something a little harder to put his finger on.
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