He’s never understood young people who natter on about “finding themselves.” He used to hear that nonstop from all those thirty-year-olds at work.
All they ever talked about was how they wanted more “leisure time,”
as if that was the only point of working: to get to the point when one didn’t have to do it.
Sonja used to laugh at Ove and call him “the most inflexible man in the world.”
Ove refused to take that as an insult. He thought there should be some order in things.
There should be routines and one should be able to feel secure about them. He could not see how it could be a bad attribute.
Sonja used to tell people about the time that Ove, in a moment of temporary mental dislocation in the middle of the 1980s,
had been persuaded by her to get himself a red Saab, even though in all the years she’d known him he’d always driven a blue one.
“They were the worst three years of Ove’s life,” Sonja tittered. Since then, Ove had never driven anything but a blue Saab.
“Other wives get annoyed because their husbands don’t notice when they have their hair cut.
When I have a haircut my husband is annoyed with me for days because I don’t look the same,” Sonja used to say.
That’s what Ove misses most of all. Having things the same as usual.
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