“Yes, well, it wasn’t a smart thing to say. We know he’s wrong, don’t we?”
“Yes…”
He was breathing normally again. He took hold of the plaid bedspread and wrapped it around them both.
“You’re not working tonight, are you?”
“No, Justine, I’m with you. I’m staying here.”
He stroked her hair, kissed her neck, her ears.
“You’re not going to just disappear?”
“I’m sorry, Justine, forgive me. I should have tried to call you again, but Pappa was beside himself. I’ve always been their support in life.”
They lay pressed against each other for a while. He embraced her. He was heavy, living. She felt calm returning, like sleep, but without sleeping.
“Do you have a handkerchief?”
He searched in his pocket, took out a wrinkled tissue. “It’s clean,” he whispered. “Even if it doesn’t look like it.” “I believe you,” she said and blew her nose.
Then she let her hands go toward his narrow, hard hips. “Hans Peter,” she said, in order to massage his name into the room.
About the Author
INGER FRIMANSSON was born in 1944 in Stockholm and grew up in various places in the middle of Sweden. Today she lives in Sodertalje, a town not far from Stockholm, with her husband Jan. As a young girl Inger Frimansson won a number of literary competitions, among them, the so-called Little Nobel Prize in 1963. She started her career as a working journalist, and she made her debut as a writer of serious fiction in 1984 with her novel
A significant breakthrough in her writing career occurred in 1998 with the publication of
In autumn 2002,
Inger Frimansson’s novels are translated into several languages and are published in various editions in Norway, Latvia, Holland, Finland, Denmark, Spain, Bulgaria, and Germany.