Free More Bitter Than Death by Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff Page A

don’t want to risk having to listen to yet another lecture about my drinking. It’s enough that Markus is always complaining about it. I tell Aina what happened with Kattis, and she listens intently.
    “Okay,” Aina says. “I get it. Why didn’t you just say that? That sounds, I don’t know . . . Do you think she’s going to have a breakdown?”
    I close my eyes and think about it, picturing Kattis, her tense body, arms wrapped around her torso in a straitjacket grip, those tearstained cheeks, but also the look in her eyes, her upright posture.
    “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. There’s something about her that’s strong, unscathed.”
    A noisy group of girls sits down at the table next to us. They reek of cigarette smoke and wet wool, and I realize they’ve been outside smoking. Aina and I exchange glances and change the topic. We can’t talk shop if there are other people around who might overhear.
    “So how are things going with you and Markus?” Aina asks.
    Not exactly the conversation I wanted to have right now. I’m still feeling guilty about our recent argument. It’s as if I’m walking around with a knot in my stomach these days, a nagging sense of not being enough, of having done the wrong thing. Sometimes I don’t even know what I did, just that I did something wrong. I picture Markus’s face, his tousled hair, that faint blond stubble, those full lips, his eyes, the sad, hurt look in his eyes. I sigh.
    “I see,” Aina says, genuine sympathy in her eyes.
    “I’m constantly disappointing him. I can’t give him what he wants.”
    “And just what does he want?” Aina asks.
    “The whole shebang, you know? He wants some kind of stupid family idyll, just like his traditional old mom and dad up in Norrland.”
    I feel even more uncomfortable when I think about his family. How he annoys me by idealizing their happy familyhood, as if that were something anyone could have, something you could just get, like a new table or a couch.
    “Markus is young, and sometimes he’s so naïve,” I say, shaking my head and looking down at my wineglass, which is now almost empty.
    “What if he isn’t? Naïve, I mean,” Aina says, brushing a strand of blond hair out of her face and searching mine. “What if you’re the one who’s not giving him a chance because you’re too chicken to take that step?”
    I look at her, surprised, because she’s usually the one who’s skeptical of my relationship with Markus.
    “I mean, you’re obviously very fond of him, but you’re still scared. You won’t take ownership of your relationship. I think you should figure out what you really want, because you’re not being fair to Markus.”
    I don’t understand what Aina is doing. She’s usually more loyal than this, always on my side. I’m about to argue but am interrupted by a friendly waiter who sets down a plate with an enormous helping of meatballs. I sigh and glance up, focus on the playing card that hangs oddly from the ceiling. It’s been up there for as long as I can remember. When our eyes meet again, I shrug at Aina and pick up my fork.
    The conversation is over.

I’m alone at the office, transcribing case notes and taking care of other administrative matters. It’s evening and I ought to go home, eat dinner, and watch some TV with Markus. Instead I eat a gummy bear. I’ve been feeling vaguely sick all day, like I’m suffering from a mild but annoying hangover, as if some insidious flu were sitting in my intestines, waiting to take hold.
    The office is silent, dark, and deserted. The smell of an old banana peel turns my stomach, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Finally I locate the brown peel behind the trash can. With a wrinkled nose, I take it to the kitchen and throw it out.
    My cell phone rings as I’m walking back into my office. It’s my oldest sister calling to remind me about my nephew’s birthday. She sounds happy and tells me about her new job and an upcoming