Romance
Read an excerpt from Benny & Shrimp (continued):
Somewhere there's a nagging little feeling of pure deflation, as well. I feel let down that Örjan went and died. When we'd planned our future, short and long term! A canoeing holiday in Värmland, and a high-yield pension scheme apiece.
Örjan should be feeling let down, too. All that tai chi, organic potato, and polyunsaturated fat. What good did it do him?
Sometimes I'm outraged on his behalf. It's not fair,Örjan! When you were so well-meaning and competent!
And there's an excited little flutter between my legs now and then, after five months of celibacy. It makes me worry I've got necrophiliac tendencies.
Next to Örjan's stone there's a really tasteless gravestone, an absolute monstrosity. White marble with swirly gold lettering; angels, roses, birds, words on garlands of ribbon, even a salutary little skull and scythe. The grave itself is as crowded with plants as a garden center. On the headstone are a man's name and a woman's name with similar dates of birth, so it must be a child honoring his father and mother in that over lavish way.
A few weeks ago I saw the bereaved by the monstrosity for the first time. He was a man of about my age, in aloud, quilted jacket and a padded cap with earflaps. Its peak went up at the front, American-style, and had a logo saying FOREST OWNERS' ALLIANCE. He was eagerly raking and digging his little plot.
There's nothing growing around Örjan's stone. He'd probably have thought a little rosebush totally out of keeping, since it wasn't a species native to the cemetery's biotope. And they don't sell yarrow or meadowsweet in the flower shop at the cemetery gates.
The Forest Owner comes regularly every few days, about noon. He's always loaded down with new plants and fertilizers. He seems to take great pride in his gardening, as if the grave were his allotment.
Last time, he sat down on the seat beside me and looked at me sideways, but he didn't say anything.
He had a funny smell and only three fingers on his left hand.
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