**En bukett prästkragar i november**
Lin wrapped her dressing gown tighter and stepped closer to the window. Barely any leaves clung to the trees outside. A thin, whitish frost coated the wilted grass and the roof of the neighboring house. Yesterday evening, it had drizzled, and by nightfall, a light freeze had settled in. A cold and gloomy November—the prelude to an endless winter.
Lin sighed. The melancholy outside mirrored the one in her heart. Another weekend alone in her apartment. Just like that…
***
It had been November then too. During her lunch break, Lin had dashed across the street to the café near the office where they sold takeaway food. She and her girlfriends took turns making the trip. A light rain fell, but she hadn’t bothered with an umbrella—too cumbersome when carrying food bags.
The road was empty, not a car in sight. Confidently, she stepped onto the zebra crossing. This street was usually quiet, with no traffic lights at the pedestrian crossing. She never saw the SUV rounding the corner. The screech of brakes made her freeze, her hands instinctively flying to her face.
“Har du bråttom till graven? Trött på livet eller?” snapped an angry voice nearby.
Lin lowered her hands. A tall man stood beside the SUV, glaring at her with dark, furious eyes. His black coat hung open, and his strong jawline was accentuated by a stylish beard.
“Man ska alltid titta sig för. Om du ville dö under hjulen, kunde du åtminstone ha valt en större väg,” he grumbled.
What struck her wasn’t his rudeness, but his looks. This man—this *dream* of a man—was practically spitting fire at her.
“Tror du för att du har en fin bil så kan du köra som en galning? Det finns ingen trafikljus här. Vägen var tom. Jag gjorde inget fel—jag gick över övergångsstället. Du borde sänka farten i kurvor. Det går faktiskt folk här, eller hur?” she shot back.
The man studied her for a moment.
“Jag hade bråttom. Om du inte är skadad, kör jag vidare. Förlåt,” he tossed over his shoulder, already walking back to his car.
Lin trembled long after he drove off. Nearly run over *and* yelled at. The next day, the rain had stopped. She took her time crossing the street, cautiously stepping onto the zebra crossing when suddenly—a car door slammed beside her. Instinctively, she jumped back onto the sidewalk.
Out of the parked SUV stepped *him*, sauntering toward her with a grin.
“Herregud, vad vill du nu? Kör förbi du. Jag väntar,” she said, her pulse quickening at the sight of that smile.
“Förlåt. Jag väntade på dig. Ville gottgöra igår. Vill du äta lunch med mig? Som kompensation för min otrevlighet.” His teeth were distractingly perfect.
“Har du inte bråttom idag?” she asked warily.
They sat in the café, and for a while, everything else faded. Then she noticed the wedding band on his finger. *Gift.* Her heart sank. He was a lawyer. A father of two girls. He asked for her number and called it immediately so she’d have his. “If you ever need legal help,” he’d said smoothly.
Lin never planned to call him. But two days later, he did—inviting her to lunch across town where no one would recognize them.
“Folk känner igen mig. Vill inte ha skvaller,” he explained.
And somehow… he started coming to her apartment. Not often. Briefly. Unexpectedly. On weekends and holidays, she sat alone, missing him. He had warned her: *I won’t leave my wife. I adore my kids.*
The question burned: *Then why are you here?* But she bit it back, afraid of scaring him off. She was in love, and even these stolen moments of happiness were enough. Besides, she didn’t have much experience with men.
***
That Saturday, Lin lounged in bed. No rush. No one to impress. When the doorbell rang, she didn’t even check her reflection before opening.
Anton burst in like a storm, kissing her between words—*Jag har bara en halvtimme*—and just as suddenly, he was gone. After a shower, she lingered by the window. The frost had melted, leaving the asphalt damp like after rain.
*Sådan är kärleken. Ensam igen.* But at least he’d spared her half an hour on a weekend. That had to mean something, right? Her heart raced; her skin still hummed from his touch. She wrapped her arms around herself.
How long could this go on? How long till *he* ended it? She should be the one to walk away—before it hurt worse. But leaving was easier said than done when you loved someone. *Oj, så svårt.*
That week, he didn’t visit. Then, on Friday—a call.
“Lillan, jag har saknat dig så. Jag har en timme. Möt mig på restaurangen. Ta tunnelbanan—trafiken är kaos.” He rattled off an address and hung up.
Lin grabbed her coat, swiped on lipstick, and turned to her coworker:
“Kan du täcka för mig? Har tandvärk. Okej?”
Marina smirked knowingly. “Självklart.”
Halfway to the subway, Lin nearly knocked over an old man. His cane clattered to the ground.
“Förlåt!” She hurried back, handing it to him.
“Inget fara. Skyndar du till din käraste? I din ålder sprang jag också så där. Ser inget annat. Nu har jag ingen anledning att skynda mig. Hon kommer inte försvinna.”
Lin’s gaze dropped to the four prästkragar in his hand. *Prästkragar—i november!* Why four?
“Förlåt,” she murmured guiltily.
“Inget att oroa sig för. Skynda dig, annars blir han otålig. Jag skulle ha sprungit till min Tonie, men orkar inte längre.”
*How did he know?*
“Är du på väg till kyrkogården? Till din fru?” she asked.
“Ja. Efter Tonie gick bort gick jag varje dag. Nu orkar jag inte. Min tid närmar sig. Snart ses vi igen. Vi var tillsammans hela livet—älskade varandra så. Vet du, jag är glad att hon gick först. Hon slapp vara ensam som jag.” He studied her. “Du påminner lite om henne när hon var ung.”
Her phone buzzed insistently.
“Jag ska inte uppehålla dig.” The old man shuffled off, leaning heavily on his cane.
Lin answered. “Lin, *var är du?* Jag har inte mycket tid. Skynda dig.” Anton sounded impatient.
She hung up. When the phone rang again, she silenced it. The old man was nearing a busy crossing. Lin remembered how she’d almost been hit by Anton’s SUV and rushed after him.
“Låt mig hjälpa dig över.” She took his arm, guiding him slowly. A car honked impatiently behind them.
“Tack. Men i min ålder är jag inte rädd för att dö under hjulen.” He walked on, and Lin watched him go.
*This* was the love she wanted. A lifetime together. Someone who’d miss her. Who’d bring her prästkragar in November.
Back at work, Marina blinked. “Redan tillbaka?”
“Tandvärken försvann. Jag går till doktorn senare.”
At home, she found missed calls and texts from Anton. How often had she imagined calling *him*—only to picture him fumbling with excuses while his wife listened? What if *she* answered? No. She pitied that trusting woman.
Her phone buzzed again. Anton.
“Vad i helvete betyder det här? Kunde du inte ringa och säga att du inte kom? Varför stängde du av telefonen?”
“Väntade du på mig?” she asked, oddly pleased he was upset.
“Lin, vad är det med dig?”
“Inget. Jag vill bara ha en familj. Barn. Sova hela natten bredvid min man. Laga frukost. Vänta på honom som din fru gör. Jag är trött på att springa—på halvtimmar…” Her voice broke.
“Jag sa ju från början att jag inte lämnar min fru…”
“Ärligt mot *vem*?” she whispered.
“Varför börjar du nu?” He sounded tired.
“Anton, jag orkar inte vänta på när det passar *Och medan hon stod där, insåg hon att hennes nästa kapitel kanske redan hade börjat med en främling och ett trasigt paraply.
