Olov on the Line

They had stopped calling, those bloody telesales people. So I rang a missed number, ended up speaking to an Olov. He was tired of the job, didn’t even subscribe to any newspaper himself. I rang him every evening. Olov’s supervisor was pleased. Until the figures were presented. I had to sign up for six months, fifty kronor a month wasn’t much to quibble over. Olov told me he had seen the film The Ghost Writer and since then had been searching for remotely located houses. Could we meet there? Or perhaps this was as good as it would ever get between us. The thought was both frightening and comforting. In fact we had it quite good.