“Don’t you have anything better to do than standing out here pretending to be the foreman?” groans the man in the white shirt.
“There was nothing good on TV,” says Ove. And that’s when there’s a little twitch at the temple of the man in the white shirt.
As if his mask has slipped a little, just a fraction.
He looks at the trailer, his boxed-in Škoda, the sign, Ove standing in front of him with his arms crossed.
The man seems to consider for an instant whether he might try to force Ove by violence,
but he realizes in another instant that this would very likely be an extremely bad idea.
“This was very silly of you, Ove. This was very, very silly,” he hisses finally.
And his blue eyes, for the first time, are filled with genuine fury. Ove’s face does not betray the slightest emotion.
The man in the white shirt walks away, up towards the garages and the main road,
with the sort of steps that make it clear that this will not be the end of this story.
The woman with the papers hurries off after him. One might have expected Ove to watch them with a look of triumph in his eyes.
He would probably have expected this himself, in fact. But instead he just looks sad and tired.
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