All marriages have their bad sides, because all people have weaknesses. If you live with another human being you learn to handle these weaknesses in a variety of ways. For instance, you might take the view that weaknesses are a bit like heavy pieces of furniture, and based on this you must learn to clean around them. To maintain the illusion.

Of course the dust is building up unseen, but you learn to repress this for as long as it goes unnoticed by guests. And then one day someone moves a piece of furniture without your say-so, and everything comes into plain view. Dirt and scratch marks. Permanent damage to the parquet floor. By then it's too late.

Britt-Marie stands in the bathroom at the recreation center, looking at all of her worst sides in the mirror. She's afraid -- she's fairly certain this is her worst side. More than anything she'd like to go home. Iron Kent's shirts and sit on her own balcony. More than anything she'd like everything to go back to normal.

"Do you want me to leave?" asks Pirate anxiously from the doorway.

"I'm not going to tolerate your laughing at me," says Britt-Marie with all the strictness she can summon.

"Why would I laugh at you?" asks Pirate.

"Sven said you forgot this."

Britt-Marie takes it, dismayed. Contraband. Which she has now either stolen or bought on credit, depending on how positively you want to look at it. This is all highly vexatious, because Britt-Marie is not even sure now what sort of criminal she is. But there's no doubt that she's a criminal. Although Kent would certainly agree with Somebody that there's nothing criminal about withholding cigarettes from the tax authorities and the police. "Get over it, darling! It's not cheating if you don't get caught!" he always used to say when she was signing off her tax return and she asked what all those other pieces of paper were that Kent's accountant had slipped into the envelope. "Don't worry, they're completely legal tax deductions! Get on with it!" he'd say reassuringly. Kent loved deductions and loathed tax bills. Britt-Marie never dared admit to him that she did not understand the rights and wrongs of it.

She sucks in her cheeks without answering. Hesitant, he holds out a carton of cigarettes with foreign lettering.

Pirate gently touches her shoulder.

Britt-Marie nods and tries to look as if, in fact, she hadn't been especially worried about it in the first place. Pirate seems encouraged by this response, because he goes on:

"Why on earth does he think that?" asks Britt-Marie, because on the basis of her slight knowledge of hockey it seems to her one of the few things in the universe that is more ludicrous than soccer.

"Fredrik trains the hockey team in town, they're wicked! The tall one who was with him in the pizzeria is his son, he's as old as me but he's almost got a beard already! You get that? Sick, isn't it? He's wicked at soccer as well but Fredrik wants him to play hockey because he thinks hockey's better!"

"Probably because it's expensive. Fredrik likes things that most people can't afford," says Pirate.

"They weren't laughing at you. In the pizzeria, I mean. They were laughing at Fredrik. He was the boss at the trucking company when they all got fired, so they don't like him."

"Why are you so dreadfully amused by soccer, then?" asks Britt-Marie.

"What do you mean? People like soccer just because they like soccer, that's all."

Pirate seems to find the question mystifying.

"What's that?"

Ludicrous, thinks Britt-Marie, but she doesn't say it. Instead, she points to a bag in the boy's hand.

"Scissors and a comb and products and stuff!" says the boy blissfully.

Britt-Marie doesn't ask what he means by "products" but she notes that he has a heck of a lot of jars, anyway. She fetches a stool from the kitchen, puts down towels on the floor, and gestures for him to take a seat. Then she washes his hair and cuts the uneven bits. She used to do that for Ingrid.

She is quickly silenced by her common sense. Embarrassed, she clamps her lips together.

"From time to time I feel unsure whether people are laughing at me or something else, you must understand. My husband says I don't have a sense of humor."

Suddenly words come tumbling out of her; she can't understand why on earth she had to open her mouth, but:

The boy stares at her in the mirror with consternation.

Britt-Marie doesn't answer. But she agrees. It is a horrific thing to say to someone.

"That's a horrific thing to say to someone!"

"Do you love him? Your husband?" asks the boy so suddenly that Britt-Marie almost snips him in the ear.

"Yes."

She brushes down his shoulder with the back of her hand. Buries her gaze in his scalp.

"Why isn't he here, then?"

"Because sometimes love isn't enough."

Then they remain silent until Britt-Marie has finished cutting, and Pirate's unruly mop has been tenderly coaxed into a hairstyle as neat as biological circumstances will allow. He stays where he is, admiring himself in the mirror. Britt-Marie cleans up and looks out into the parking area. Two young men are standing there, neither of them even twenty years old, smoking and leaning against a big black car. They're wearing the same kind of jeans, ripped across the thighs, as the children in the soccer team. But these two are no children. They look like the sort of young men who would make Britt-Marie take a firmer grip on her handbag while passing. Not that she judges people, not at all, but one of these men actually has tattoos on his hands.

"Sami is their older brother."

"No one here has a job. Apart from some really old people."

"Those are not names," Britt-Marie informs him.

Britt-Marie puts one hand in the other. Then the other in the one. While trying not to be offended.

"That's Psycho. He's mad. Sami's quite all right, but Psycho's… you know, he's dangerous. You have to avoid any trouble with him. My mother says I'm not allowed in Vega and Omar's house when Psycho's there."

He sounds scared.

"That's Sami and Psycho," says Pirate behind her.

"The one on the right has tattoos on his hands," she notes.

"I don't suppose they have jobs to go to?"

Pirate shrugs.

The door of the pizzeria opens. Vega emerges with two pizzas and hands them to Sami. He kisses her on the cheek. Psycho grins insolently at her. She looks at him as if she just bought a new bag and he vomited in it. Then he slams the door. The black car pulls out of the parking area.

"Why on earth would he be in Vega and Omar's home?"

"Sami is a name, I think. But Psycho is called Psycho because he's a psycho," says Pirate quietly, as if he doesn't dare utter their names too loudly.

"In this weather? Outdoors? That's ludicrous!"

"Anyway, what does that mean?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Ha. Quite understandable. Because she knows they're worried about the police, of course."

"About what?" asks Britt-Marie.

"No, I mean it's an indoor competition. In a sports center, in town," says Pirate. Britt-Marie is about to say a few choice words about the sort of people who like to kick balls around indoors when there's a knock on the door. A boy about the same age as Pirate is standing outside. Long-haired, one might also add.

"Has Vega asked you yet?"

"If you want to be our coach?"

"A cup? Like a competition?"

Societies are like people in that way. If you don't ask too many questions and don't shift any heavy furniture around, there's no need to notice their worst sides. Britt-Marie brushes down her skirt. Then she brushes Pirate's sleeve. She'd like to change the subject, and without further ado he helps her out:

"Like a cup."

"I mean a trainer. We have to have one. There's a challenge cup in town; you can only enter if you have a team with a coach."

"They don't eat in the pizzeria when Sven's there. Vega said they're not allowed to," explains Pirate.

"No, because she knows the police are afraid of them."

Extremely offended, she cups one hand into the other and asks:

"Who?" says Britt-Marie.

"Ha?" says Britt-Marie.

It seems fairly unclear what the meaning of "like" is in the construction of the sentence. As if the boy just asked, "Is Ben almost here?"

"Ben? Or, like, what they call him in his team. Pirate?"

"Ha. Ha. Ha. He is here, but he's occupied," says Britt-Marie firmly and is about to close the door.

"He's meeting someone. Or he has a date. Or whatever it's called."

"Is Ben, like, here?" asks the boy.

"Also epically lame," snorts the boy.

The boy is chewing gum. She dislikes that. It's actually quite all right to dislike chewing gum, even if you are a person without any prejudices.

"What do you say, then?" asks Britt-Marie, just a touch critically.

"Ha."

Britt-Marie, who is not encumbered with any prejudice, puts one hand in the other and says:

"It's, like, epically lame saying 'date,' " says the boy.

"It was Pir… it was Ben who said it. In my time we said 'meeting,' " says Britt-Marie, defending herself.

"With what, sort of thing?" asks the boy.

"I know. With me!" says the boy with a frustrated groan.

"I know nothing about that. I don't have any prejudices about it," Britt-Marie assures him.

"This is a boy," confirms Pirate with a nod, as if they are playing some sort of parlor game, the rules of which have not been explained to him.

"But this is a boy," says Britt-Marie.

"Ha," says Britt-Marie.

"I do go on dates with girls sometimes," says Pirate.

"I have to ask you to wait here," says Britt-Marie and firmly closes the door.

"Nothing. Just 'out,' sort of thing," says the boy.

Britt-Marie takes a piece of toilet paper, carefully picks a hair off Pirate's jumper and folds it into the toilet paper, then flushes it down the toilet.

Pirate stands in the bathroom, fixing his hair. He starts jumping up and down on the spot when he sees her in the mirror.

"Is he here? Isn't he fantastic?"

"Do you have to decide on one or the other?"

"He's strikingly rude," says Britt-Marie, but Pirate obviously can't hear anything, because the sound of his jumping echoes quite a lot in the bathroom.

"I was under the impression that you went on dates with girls."

"What did they say?"

Britt-Marie can't quite bring herself to answer, so she just nods. She picks off one last hair from his jumper, and awkwardly holds it in her hand. He hugs her. She can't think why on earth he would get it into his head to do such a thing.

"Do you think he'll like my hair?"

"Why wouldn't they know?"

"Is my hair looking nice?"

"Why wouldn't I have told them?"

"You shouldn't be alone. It's a waste when someone whose hair looks as nice as yours is alone," he whispers.

"Have you told them?"

Pirate looks surprised.

"Ha, ha, obviously nothing, obviously," says Britt-Marie in a way you could describe as not at all defensive, and then adds: "I have no prejudices about this!"

"They said 'okay.' " Then he looks unsure. "What else should they have said?"

"I know," says Pirate.

Then he smiles nervously.

"Your friends in the soccer team obviously don't know that you go on dates with boys. Obviously I won't mention it."

Britt-Marie doesn't seem to have heard his question, and instead she says:

Pirate adjusts his hair, smiles, and asks:

Pirate turns around, runs back through the room, and hugs her again. She pushes him away, friendly but firm, because one mustn't forget one's boundaries. He asks her if he can borrow her cell phone. She looks doubtful, and warns him not to run up a large bill. He dials his own number, lets it ring once, then hangs up. Then he tries to embrace her again, laughs when she squirms, and runs off. The door closes.

"If he doesn't say your hair is looking lovely, then he doesn't deserve you!"

He's almost at the door when Britt-Marie, still holding his hair in her hand, collects herself, clears her throat, and whispers back:

Fifteen minutes later Britt-Marie gets a text message: "He said it! :)"

The recreation center goes quiet around her. She vacuums up all the hair from the floor just to make some noise. Washes and tumble-dries the towels.

Then she dusts all the pictures, taking extra care with the information chart and map, which Somebody hung three feet lower than all the other frames.

She removes the wrapper from a Snickers bar, puts it on a plate, puts the plate on a towel, and leaves it all on the threshold. Opens the front door. Sits for a long time on her stool trying to feel the wind in her hair. At long last she picks up the telephone.

"What… but I mean, what do you mean by… what's wrong with my hairstyle?"

"Britt-Marie?"

"I mean, not that… you know… there's anything wrong with being that way! Or not," the girl persists.

"That's not for me to stick my nose into."

"I'm not… I mean, I'm… I don't like…" says the girl defensively in a slightly overbearing voice.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that I just thought it, maybe so. In either case it was impolite of me," says Britt-Marie irritably.

"Hello?" says the girl at the unemployment office.

Britt-Marie inhales deeply.

Britt-Marie swallows with concentration.

"You didn't mention anything about… that."

"I certainly haven't said anything of the kind!"

"Obviously I shouldn't have got involved in that, I mean the sort of hairstyle you have. Or if you go out on dates with boys or girls. Not at all."

"Nothing at all. That's what I'm saying," insists Britt-Marie.

"It was impolite of me to say that you had a boy's hairstyle."

"Well, then," says Britt-Marie.

"Nor me!" protests the girl.

There's such a long silence between them that at long last the girl says, "Hello?" because she thinks Britt-Marie has hung up. And that's when Britt-Marie hangs up.

The rat is one hour and six minutes late for dinner. It rushes in and lunges at the biggest possible piece of Snickers that it could carry, stops for a second and stares at Britt-Marie, then runs back outside into the darkness. Britt-Marie wraps the rest of the chocolate in plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge. Washes up the plate. Washes and tumble-dries the towel and hangs it in its place. Through the window she sees Sven emerging from the pizzeria. He stops by the police car and looks over at the recreation center. Britt-Marie hides behind the curtain. He gets in the car and drives off. For a short moment she was afraid he was going to come over and knock on the door. Then she got disappointed when he didn't.

"Absolutely!" says the girl.

She turns off all the lights except in the bathroom. The sheen of the lone lightbulb finds its way out from under the door and lights up the exact area of the wall where Somebody hung up the information chart, slightly too low but obviously not too low. "Welcome to Borg," Britt-Marie reads, while she sits on a stool in the darkness and looks at the red dot that first made her fall in love with the picture. The reason for her love of maps. It's half worn away, the dot, and the red color is bleached. Yet it's there, flung down there on the map halfway between the lower left corner and its center, and next to it is written, "You are here."

Sometimes it's easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing.