Alf. Kent. Sven. One who deceived her and left her. Another who deceived her and was left by her. A third who is many things she has never had, but possibly none of the ones she has been longing for. And she can slowly, slowly, slowly unwrap the bandage from her hand and look at the white mark on her ring finger. While dreaming of first love and other chances, and weighing up forgiveness against love. Counting the beats of her heart.

If a human being closes her eyes she can remember all the choices in her life. And realize they have all been for the sake of someone else.

It's early morning in Borg, but the dawn seems to be holding off. As if it wants to give her time to raise her hand. Make up her mind.

If a human being closes her eyes hard and long enough, she can remember all the times she has made a choice in her life just for her own sake. And realize, perhaps, that it has never happened. If she drives a white car with a blue door slowly down a road through a village, while it's still dark, and if she winds down the window and takes deep breaths, then she can remember all the men she has fallen in love with.

And jump.

She knocks on the door. It opens. She wants to say everything she feels inside, everything she has been carrying, but she never gets the chance. She wants to explain exactly why she's here and nowhere else, but she is interrupted. It makes her disappointed to realize she was expected -- and that she's so predictable.

She wants to say something about how it feels, to open her chest and let everything flow for the first time, but she is not given the opportunity. Instead she is led with a firm hand back to the road. The pavement is dotted with plastic petrol cans. As if they've fallen off the back of a truck.

"Those of us who can count have worked it out, yes," the girl interjects.

"Everyone in the team collected money. We've worked out the exact distance," says the boy.

"I can count!" the boy cries angrily.

Britt-Marie leans forward and feels the plastic jerrycans. They stink.

"Just about as much as you can kick a ball, so, yeah, like, you can count to three!" The girl grins.

Something brushes against her arms and it takes a good while before she realizes the children are holding both of her hands.

"And all the way back," adds Vega.

"It's petrol. We've worked it out. There's enough here to get all the way to Paris," whispers Omar.

They stand there waving while Britt-Marie gets into the driver's seat. They wave with their entire bodies, the way grown-ups never do. Morning comes to Borg with a sun that controls itself and waits respectfully on the horizon, as if wanting to give her enough time to make a last choice, and then to choose for herself for the first time. When daylight finally streams in over the rooftops, a white car with a blue door starts pulling away.

Maybe she stops. Maybe she knocks on just one more door.

God knows Britt-Marie certainly has enough fuel.

Maybe she just drives.

In a few months, six hundred miles away, Liverpool will almost win the English Premier League. In one of the last matches they will be leading 3-0 against Crystal Palace, but in eight surreal minutes they will let in three goals and lose the League title. No one in Liverpool will ever know anything about Borg, they won't even know the place exists, but no one who drives down this road with their windows rolled down will be able to avoid hearing the whole thing as it happens.

It's January in a place that is one of millions rather than one in a million. A place like all the others, and a place like no other.

There's a soccer pitch. There's a soccer club.

If you merely drive through Borg it's easy to notice only the places that have been closed down. You have to slow down to see what's still there. There are people in Borg. There are rats and walkers and greenhouses. Wooden fences and white jerseys and lit candles. Newly laid turf and sunny stories. There's a florist where you can only buy red flowers. There's a corner shop and a car mechanic and a postal service and a pizzeria where the TV is always on whenever there's a match, and where it's no shame to buy on credit. There isn't a recreation center anymore, but there are children who eat bacon and eggs with their new coach and her dog in a house with a balcony, in a living room where there are new photos on the wall. There are marginally fewer "For Sale" signs along the road today than there were yesterday. There are grown men with beards and caps who play soccer in the beams of headlights from old trucks.

It's January now, but spring will come to Borg. A young man will rest beside his mother in a churchyard under a blanket of scarves; two children will fall over themselves to deplore useless referees and pathetic sliding tackles. A ball will come rolling and a foot will kick it, because this is a community where no one knows how not to. A summer will come when Liverpool loses everything, and then autumn will arrive and along with it a new season, when they have another chance to win everything. Soccer is a mighty game in that way, because it forces life to go on.

Borg is exactly where it is. Where it has always been. Borg is a place by a road that exits in two directions. One direction home and one to Paris.

Everyone will know Britt-Marie was here.

Manchester United fire their manager and start again. Tottenham promise that next season will be better. Somewhere out there, people can still be found who support Aston Villa.

And whatever happens.

Wherever she is.