One for the road

Two homeless men approach each other. Dirty trousers. Deep-tanned hands and faces.

“Been to the Canary Islands?” one asks in a boozy old-Stockholm drawl.

The other doesn’t catch the joke.

Doesn’t matter. New jokes.

I hear my own breathing. Feel the heat in my shoes. Should maybe get a pair of those fancy suede Birkenstocks. Or the cheaper copies at Zara.

Helping M return a package. It’s last minute and the Coop guy says I have to print the barcode.

I need a printer.

Head for Medis.

Print at the Tranströmer Library.

A woman is blocking the printer. She glances back at me. “Could you keep your distance.”

I’m so surprised I stay where I am. “I’m printing too.”

She stares down into the printer. Looks up. “Keep your distance.”

I nod. Take a step back. Discover I’ve missed a step. A QR code. The instructions are in capital letters. I follow three steps. Done.

Her stack of papers pushes out of the printer.

I glance over her shoulder.

Invitations to a wedding. Thirty or so.

Short on oxygen.

Then my page.

“That’ll be mine,” I say.

She holds the stack away and steps aside. Keeps her elbow tucked against her body.

I fish out my page.

Outside. I take a deep breath. Would have gotten praise at the yoga studio.

Time stands still.

A beer cracks open.

The woman who said a few weeks ago that she disliked Södermalm. I understand her. I’m seeing with her eyes.

A man with his phone at full volume. Scrolling TikTok. An American voice says the only thing the modern woman likes is what starts with a P and ends with an S. “Pilates.”

I get anxious at the thought of saying something just as stupid on TikTok or on TV.

But why would I be saying anything on TikTok or on TV?

I shake my head. Didn’t my voice tremble last time I introduced myself in a Zoom meeting, in front of four people?

Sankt Paulsgatan.

Mariatorget.

Vibe-coding a dating app. Working. My neck and upper back start to ache.

Out to the archipelago.

Same thing there.

Work. Swim.

Fish.

It’s been a long time. The boat glides past the reeds. The hooks of the lure rattle.

Don’t really feel like watching a pike bend itself in and out.

We catch a few perch off the jetty.

I feel more for the fish than I used to.

And for the worms.

Wash my hands.

See a story on Instagram.

A guy somewhere in the US puts a worm in the mouth of a fish he’s about to release.

“One for the road,” the guy says, and tosses it back into the water.

I rewind and watch it again.

Back into the city.

Dinner at China with J. He criticizes me. A little too much, I think. The relationship with S. My plans to move to Östermalm. My ever-narrower waist. My blogging. He’s got it into his head that I write with AI. I tell him I don’t. He’d see that if he read. He doesn’t want to read.

Halfway through I interrupt and ask him to be a little positive. It lasts fifteen minutes. Instead it’s me who gives in. I confirm that I’ll seek therapy, put on a few kilos, and move to where I belong. It’s easier.

Following the weather. The wars. The fire in Drammen, Norway.

Scrolling.

There it is again. The boy, the fish and the worm.

“One for the road.”

It makes me unexpectedly happy.