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She sits in the dark, of course, otherwise what would people think if they walked by and saw the light left on as if there was some criminal inside?

But she doesn't sleep, because she remembers the thick layer of dust on the floor of the recreation center before she started cleaning, and if she dies in her sleep she's certainly not going to risk lying here until she starts smelling and gets all covered in dust. Sleeping on one of the sofas in the corner of the recreation center is not even worth thinking about, because they were so filthy that Britt-Marie had to wear double latex gloves when she covered them with baking soda. Maybe she could have slept in the car? Maybe, if she were an animal.

Britt-Marie stays awake all night. She's used to that, as people are when they have lived their entire lives for someone else.

The girl at the unemployment office kept insisting that there was a hotel in the town twelve miles away, but Britt-Marie can't even think of staying another night in a place where other people have made her bed. She knows that there are some people who do nothing else but dream of going away and experiencing something different, but Britt-Marie dreams of staying at home where everything is always the same. She wants to make her own bed.

Once, Kent made a mistake about the check-in time for the flight when they were going home after a hotel visit, although Kent still maintains that "those sods can't even write the correct time on the sodding ticket," and they had to run off in the middle of the night without even having time to take a shower. So, just before Britt-Marie rushed out of the door, she ran into the bathroom to turn on the shower for a few seconds so there would be water on the floor when the cleaning staff came, and they would therefore not come to the conclusion that the guests in Room 423 had set off wearing their own dirt.

Anytime she and Kent are staying at a hotel she always puts up the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and then makes the bed and cleans the room herself. It's not because she judges people, not at all; it's because she knows that the cleaning staff could very well be the sort of people who judge people, and Britt-Marie certainly doesn't want to run the risk of the cleaning staff sitting in a meeting in the evening discussing the horrible state of Room 423.

She doesn't know when he stopped caring about what people thought of her.

Kent snorted at her and said she was always too bloody concerned about what people thought of her. Britt-Marie was screaming inside all the way to the airport. She had actually mainly been concerned about what people would think of Kent.

She knows that once upon a time he did care. That was back in the days when he still looked at her as if he knew she was there. It's difficult to know when love blooms; suddenly one day you wake up and it's in full flower. It works the same way when it wilts -- one day it is just too late. Love has a great deal in common with balcony plants in that way. Sometimes not even baking soda makes a difference.

Britt-Marie doesn't know when their marriage slipped out of her hands. When it became worn and scratched up no matter how many coasters she used. Once he used to hold her hand when they slept, and she dreamed his dreams. Not that Britt-Marie didn't have any dreams of her own; it was just that his were bigger, and the one with the biggest dreams always wins in this world. She had learned that. So she stayed home to take care of his children, without even dreaming of having any of her own. She stayed home another few years to make a presentable home and support him in his career, without dreaming of her own. She found she had neighbors who called her a "nag-bag" when she worried about what the Germans would think if there was rubbish in the foyer or the stairwell smelled of pizza. She made no friends of her own, just the odd acquaintance, usually the wife of one of Kent's business associates.

Kent's children liked her, she thinks, but children become adults and adults refer to women of Britt-Marie's type as nag-bags. From time to time there were other children living on their block; occasionally Britt-Marie got to cook them dinner if they were home alone. But the children always had mothers or grandmothers who came home at some point, and then they grew up and Britt-Marie became a nag-bag. Kent kept saying she was socially incompetent and she assumed this had to be right. In the end all she dreamed of was a balcony and a husband who did not walk on the parquet in his golf shoes, who occasionally put his shirt in the laundry basket without her having to ask him to do it, and who now and then said he liked the food without her having to ask. A home. Children who, although they weren't her own, came for Christmas in spite of everything. Or at least tried to pretend they had a decent reason not to. A correctly organized cutlery drawer. An evening at the theater every now and again. Windows you could see the world through. Someone who noticed that Britt-Marie had taken special care with her hair. Or at least pretended to notice. Or at least let Britt-Marie go on pretending.

One of them once offered to help Britt-Marie with the washing-up after a dinner party, and then she set about sorting Britt-Marie's cutlery drawer with knives on the left, then spoons and forks. When Britt-Marie asked, in a state of shock, what she was doing, the acquaintance laughed as if it was a joke, and said, "Does it really matter?" They were no longer acquainted. Kent said that Britt-Marie was socially incompetent, so she stayed home for another few years so he could be social on behalf of the both of them. A few years turned into more years, and more years turned into all years. Years have a habit of behaving like that. It's not that Britt-Marie chose not to have any expectations, she just woke up one morning and realized they were past their sell-by date.

Britt-Marie turns on the light at six o'clock the following morning. Not because she's really missing the light, but because people may have noticed the light was on last night, and if they've realized Britt-Marie has spent the night at the recreation center she doesn't want them thinking she's still asleep at this time of the morning.

There's an old television by the sofas, which she could turn on to feel less lonely, but she avoids it because there will most likely be soccer on it. There's always soccer nowadays, and faced with that option Britt-Marie would actually prefer to be lonely. The recreation center encloses her in a guarded silence. The coffee percolator lies on its side and no longer blinks at her. She sits on the stool in front of it, remembering how Kent's children said Britt-Marie was "passive-aggressive." Kent laughed in the way that he did after drinking vodka and orange in front of a soccer match, his stomach bouncing up and down and the laughter gushing forth in little snorting bursts through his nostrils, and then he replied: "She ain't bloody passive-aggressive, she's aggressive-passive!" And then he laughed until he spilled vodka on the shagpile rug.

Someone who came home to a newly mopped floor and a hot dinner on the table and, on the odd occasion, noticed that she had made an effort. It may be that a heart only finally breaks after leaving a hospital room in which a shirt smells of pizza and perfume, but it will break more readily if it has burst a few times before.

That was the night Britt-Marie decided she had had enough and moved the rug to the guest room without a word. Not because she's passive-aggressive, obviously. But because there are limits.

She looks at the coffee percolator. For a fleeting, carefree moment the thought occurs to her that she might try to mend it, but she comes to her senses and moves away from it. She hasn't mended anything since she was married. It was always best to wait until Kent came home, she felt. Kent always said, "women can't even put together IKEA furniture," when they watched women in television programs about house building or renovation. "Quota-filling," he used to call it. Britt-Marie liked sitting next to him on the sofa solving the crossword. Always so close to the remote control that she could feel the tips of his fingers against her knee when he fumbled with it to flip the channel to a soccer match.

She wasn't upset about what Kent had said, because most likely he didn't even understand it himself. On the other hand she was offended that he hadn't even checked to see if she was standing close enough to hear.

Somebody is sitting outside the door with a box of wine in her hands.

"Good wine, you know. Cheap. Fell off the back of a truck, huh!" says Somebody quite smugly.

Then she fetches more baking soda and cleans the entire recreation center one more time. She has just sprinkled another batch of baking soda over the sofas when there's a knock at the door. It takes Britt-Marie a fair amount of time to open it, because running into the bathroom and doing her hair in front of the mirror without functioning lights is a somewhat complicated process.

"Ha," says Britt-Marie to the box.

Britt-Marie doesn't know what that means.

Britt-Marie looks at the goo of melted snow and gravel left behind by the wheels with only marginally less horror than if it had been excrement.

"But, you know, I have to pour into bottle with label and all that crap, in case tax authority asks about it," says Somebody. "It's called 'house red' in my pizzeria, if tax authority asking, okay?" Somebody partly gives Britt-Marie the box and partly throws it at her before she forces her way inside, the wheelchair slamming across the threshold, to have a look around.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Bloody good! Bloody good! Hey, let me ask you something, Britt-Marie: do you mind about color?"

"What's happened to my door?" Britt-Marie asks, horrified.

"Nothing! Nothing! Just a question, huh! Yellow door? Not good? It's, what's-it-called? Oxidized! Old door. Almost not yellow anymore. Almost white now."

She nods at the wine in a carefree manner.

Somebody nods exultantly.

Somebody waves the palms of her hands in circles.

"Might I ask how the repair of my car is progressing?" asks Britt-Marie.

"I will certainly not tolerate a yellow door on my white car!"

"Okay, okay, okay, you know. Calm, calm, calm. Fix white door. No problem. Don't get lemon in arse now. But white door will have, what's-it-called? Delivery time!"

"You know, the door I got, huh. Bloody lovely door, huh. But maybe not same color as car. Maybe… more like yellow."

"You like wine, Britt?"

"No," answers Britt-Marie, not because she dislikes wine, but because if you say you like wine, people may come to the conclusion that you're an alcoholic.

Somebody grins as if this is a joke. At Britt-Marie's expense, Britt-Marie assumes.

Offended, Britt-Marie holds the box of wine in front of her as if it's making a ticking sound.

"My sister died when we were small," she informs Somebody, without taking her eyes off the wine box.

"I wanted to give to you, you know, as your congratulations-for-new-job present. But now I can see it's more like a, what's-it-called? Moving-in present!"

"My name is Britt-Marie. Only my sister calls me Britt."

"Ah… what the hell… I… what's-it-called? Condole," says Somebody sadly.

Britt-Marie curls up her toes tightly in her shoes.

"Ha. That's nice of you," she says quietly.

"Sister, huh? There's, what's-it-called? Another one of you? Nice for the world!"

"The wine is good but a bit, what's-it-called? Muddy! You have to strain it a few times with a coffee filter, huh, everything okay then!" she explains expertly, before looking at Britt-Marie's bag and Britt-Marie's balcony boxes on the floor. Her smile grows.

"Everyone likes wine, Britt!"

"I'd like to point out to you that I don't live here."

"Ha, I suppose you also have a hotel on your premises. I could imagine you do. Pizzeria and car workshop and post office and grocer's shop and a hotel? Must be nice for you, never having to make up your mind."

"There's one of them hotels, you know," says Somebody.

"I didn't sleep," says Britt-Marie, looking as if she'd like to toss the wine box out of the door and cover her ears.

Somebody's face collapses with undisguised surprise.

"Where did you sleep last night, then?"

"I don't like hotels," she announces and closes the door firmly.

Britt-Marie shifts her weight from left foot to right, and finally goes to the refrigerator and puts the wine box inside.

"Hotel? Why would I have one of those? No, no, no, Britt-Marie. I keep to my, what's-it-called? Core activity!"

Britt-Marie glares at her.

"No, damn it! Don't put wine in fridge, you get lumps in it!" yells Somebody.

"Is it really necessary to swear all the time, as if we were a horde of barbarians?"

Somebody propels her chair forward and tugs at the kitchen drawers until she finds the coffee filters.

"Shit, Britt-Marie! I show. You must filter. It's okay. Or, you know, mix with Fanta. I have cheap Fanta, if you want. From China!"

She stops herself when she notices the coffee percolator. The remains of it, at least. Britt-Marie, filled with discomfort, clasps her hands together over her stomach and looks as if she'd like to brush some invisible specks of dust from the opening of a black hole, and then sink into it herself.

"What… happened?" asks Somebody, eyeing first the mop and then the mop-sized dents in the coffee percolator. Britt-Marie stands in silence, with flaming cheeks. She may quite possibly be thinking about Kent. Finally she clears her throat, straightens her back and looks Somebody right in the eye as she answers:

"Hit by a flying stone."

Somebody looks at her. Looks at the coffee machine. Looks at the mop.

Then she starts laughing. Loudly. Then coughing. Then laughing even louder. Britt-Marie is deeply offended. It wasn't meant to be funny. At least Britt-Marie doesn't think it was; she hasn't said anything that was supposed to be funny in years, as far as she can remember. So she's offended by the laughter, because she assumes it's at her expense and not because of the actual joke. It's the sort of thing you assume if you've spent a sufficient amount of time with a husband who is constantly trying to be funny. There was not space in their relationship for more hilarity than his. Kent was funny and Britt-Marie went into the kitchen and took care of the washing-up. That was how they divided up their responsibilities.

But now Somebody sits here laughing so much that her wheelchair almost topples over. This makes Britt-Marie insecure, and her natural reaction to insecurity is irritation. She goes to the vacuum cleaner in a very demonstrative way -- to attack the sofa covers, which are covered in baking soda.

Because there's a piece of furniture from IKEA inside.

"I'm well aware of that," she says tersely. She can hear Somebody rolling her wheelchair towards the front door.

Somebody's laughter slowly turns into a titter, and then into general mumbling about flying stones. "That's bloody funny, you know. Hey, you know there's a bloody big package in your car, huh?"

And Britt-Marie is going to assemble it herself.

"You want, you know, some help carrying it inside?"

Britt-Marie rubs the nozzle as hard as she can over the sofa cushions.

Repeatedly, until Somebody gives up and yells: "Well, you know, have Fanta like I said if you want some for wine! And pizza!" Then the door closes. Britt-Marie turns off the vacuum cleaner. She doesn't want to be unfriendly, but she really doesn't want any help with the package. Nothing is more important to Britt-Marie right now than her reluctance to be helped with the package.

"It's no trouble, Britt-Marie!"

Britt-Marie turns on the vacuum cleaner by way of an answer. Somebody yells to make herself heard:

As if this would in any way be a surprise to Britt-Marie. Britt-Marie can still hear a trace of tittering in her voice.