It was a simple wedding, a civil ceremony at City Hall and then lunch at Ulla Winbladh Restaurant with their nearest relatives.

Her brother ran a hotel in the city. Hans Peter took a job there as the night clerk. This was an unfortunate choice for a newlywed who was not able to take care of his wife in a suitable manner.

They didn’t have any children, and eventually they stopped having sex as well.

“We just have a different kind of relationship,” he told himself, convincing himself that she agreed.

She didn’t. One Saturday evening, four years after their marriage, she told him that she wanted a divorce.

“I’ve met someone else,” she said, nervously pulling at her earlobe, shying away a bit, as if waiting for a blow.

He was completely calm.

“Bernt and I fit together in a different way than you and I did. Just to be honest, you and I have never really had all that much in common, other than literature. And you can’t live from literature alone.”

A feeling of sorrow entered him, light and fluttering, came and went.

She embraced him, her little frozen hand on his neck. He swallowed, and swallowed again.

“You’re fine,” she whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with you, nothing like that… but we never see each other and Bernt and I, we…”

Hans Peter nodded.

“Forgive me. Say that you forgive me.”

She was crying now, the tears traced their way down her cheeks, hung on her chin, fell and were soaked up by her sweater; her nose was red and shiny.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, as if his mouth were full of oatmeal.

She sniffed.

“So you’re not angry with me?”

“More like disappointed, that it didn’t work out.”

“Maybe we needed a little more… fire.”

“Yes, perhaps we did.”

The next day she moved out of the apartment. She only took essentials with her, and moved in with Bernt. Later that week she returned with a moving truck which she had rented from a garage. That surprised him. She never did like driving.