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To my female parent, who always made sure in that location was food in my tum and books on my shelf.

Borg is an imaginary place, and whatever apparent resemblance to real places is coincidental.

ane

Forks. Knives. Spoons.

In that lodge.

Britt-Marie is certainly not the kind of person who judges other people. Far from it.

Just surely no civilized person would even call back of arranging a cutlery drawer in a unlike way from how cutlery drawers are supposed to be bundled?

We're not animals, are we?

It's a Monday in January. She's sitting at a desk-bound in the unemployment office. Admittedly at that place's no cutlery in sight, only it's on her listen because it sums up everything that'due south gone wrong recently. Cutlery should be bundled every bit it ever has been, because life should keep unchanged. Normal life is presentable. In normal life you make clean up the kitchen and keep your balcony tidy and take care of your children. It'due south hard piece of work—harder than one might remember. In normal life you certainly don't find yourself sitting in the unemployment office.

The girl who works here has staggeringly brusk pilus, Britt-Marie thinks, like a human's. Not that at that place's annihilation wrong with that, of form—it'south modern, no dubiousness. The daughter points at a piece of paper and smiles, evidently in a hurry.

"But fill in your name, social security number, and accost hither, please."

Britt-Marie has to be registered. Equally if she were a criminal. Equally if she has come to steal a job rather than find 1.

"Milk and sugar?" the daughter asks, pouring some coffee into a plastic mug.

Britt-Marie doesn't judge anyone. Far from it. But who would behave like that? A plastic mug! Are we at war? She'd like to say just that to the girl, but considering Kent is ever urging Britt-Marie to "be more than socially enlightened" she just smiles every bit diplomatically equally she can and waits to be offered a coaster.

Kent is Britt-Marie'southward husband. He's an entrepreneur. Incredibly, incredibly successful. Has business dealings with Germany and is extremely, extremely socially aware.

The girl offers her ii tiny disposable cartons of the sort of milk that doesn't have to be kept in the fridge. And so she holds out a plastic mug with plastic teaspoons protruding from information technology. Britt-Marie could non have looked more startled if she'd been offered roadkill.

She shakes her head and brushes her hand over the table every bit if it was covered in invisible crumbs. There are papers everywhere, in any quondam order. The girl clearly doesn't accept fourth dimension to tidy them up, Britt-Marie realizes—she'due south probably far too busy with her career.

"Okay," says the girl pleasantly, turning back to the form, "simply write your address here."

Britt-Marie fixes her gaze on her lap. She misses being at home with her cutlery drawer. She misses Kent, considering Kent is the ane who fills in all the forms.

When the daughter looks similar she's nearly to open her mouth again, Britt-Marie interrupts her.

"You forgot to give me a coaster," says Britt-Marie, smiling, with all the social awareness she can muster. "I don't want to make marks on your table. Could I trouble yous to requite me something to put my . . . java cup on?"

She uses that distinctive tone, which Britt-Marie relies on whenever she has to summon all her inner goodness, to refer to it equally a "cup" even though information technology is a plastic mug.

"Oh, don't worry, just put it anywhere."

Equally if life was equally uncomplicated as that. Equally if using a coaster or organizing the cutlery drawer in the right order didn't matter. The girl—who conspicuously doesn't appreciate the value of coasters, or proper cups, or even mirrors, judging by her hairstyle—taps her pen against the paper, by the "accost" box.

"But surely we can't only put our cups on the tabular array? That leaves marks on a tabular array, surely you run across that."

The girl glances at the surface of the desk, which looks as if toddlers have been trying to eat potatoes off it. With pitchforks. In the night.

"It really doesn't matter; information technology's so old and scratched upwards already!" she says with a smile.

Britt-Marie is screaming inside.

"I don't suppose yous've considered that it'south because yous don't use coasters," she mutters, non at all in a "passive-aggressive" way, which is how Kent's children once described her when they thought she wasn't listening. Britt-Marie is non really passive-aggressive. She'due south considerate. Subsequently she heard Kent's children saying she was passive-aggressive she was extra considerate for several weeks.

The unemployment office girl looks a little strained. "Okay . . . what did you say your name was? Britt, right?"

"Britt-Marie. Only my sister calls me Britt."

"Okay, Britt-Marie, if you could but fill in the form. Please."

Britt-Marie peers at the paper, which requires her to give assurances about where she lives and who she is. An unreasonable amount of paperwork is required these days just to exist a man. A preposterous corporeality of assistants for gild to allow one take part. In the terminate she reluctantly fills in her name, social security number, and her jail cell phone number. The address box is left empty.

"What'southward your educational groundwork, Britt-Marie?"

Britt-Marie squeezes her pocketbook.

"I'll have you know that my education is fantabulous."

"But no formal teaching?"

"For your information, I solve an enormous number of crosswords. Which is not the sort of thing ane can practice without an teaching."

She takes a very small gulp of the java. Information technology doesn't gustation like Kent'south coffee at all. Kent makes very good java. Everyone says so. Britt-Marie takes care of the coasters and Kent takes care of the coffee.

"Okay . . . what sort of life experience do you lot have?"

"My latest employment was as a waitress. I had outstanding references."

The girl looks hopeful. "And when was that?"

"Nineteen 70-eight."

"Ah . . . and you haven't worked since then?"

"I have worked every day since then. I've helped my husband with his company."

Again the girl looks hopeful. "And what sorts of tasks did you perform in the company?"

"I took care of the children and saw to information technology that our home was presentable."

The daughter smiles to hide her disappointment, as people do when they don't have the ability to distinguish between "a place to live" and "a home." It'south actually thoughtfulness that makes the difference. Because of thoughtfulness there are coasters and proper coffee cups and beds that are made so tightly in the mornings that Kent jokes with his acquaintances nearly how, if y'all stumble on the threshold on your way into the chamber, at that place'southward "a smaller risk of breaking your leg if you land on the flooring than the bedspread." Britt-Marie loathes information technology when he talks that mode. Surely civilized people lift their feet when they walk across bedroom thresholds?

Whenever Britt-Marie and Kent become abroad, Britt-Marie sprinkles the mattress with baking soda for twenty minutes earlier she makes the bed. The blistering soda absorbs clay and humidity, leaving the mattress much fresher. Blistering soda helps most everything, in Britt-Marie's experience. Kent usually complains nigh beingness tardily; Britt-Marie clasps her hands together over her breadbasket and says: "I absolutely must be allowed to make the bed before we leave, Kent. Just imagine if we dice!"

This is the actual reason why Britt-Marie

hates traveling. Death. Not even baking soda has any effect on decease. Kent says she exaggerates, but people do actually drop dead all the time when they're away, and what would the landlord retrieve if they had to pause down the door only to find an unclean mattress? Surely they'd conclude that Kent and Britt-Marie lived in their own clay?

The girl checks her picket.

"Okay," she says.

Britt-Marie feels her tone has a note of criticism in it.

"The children are twins and we take a balustrade. Information technology'southward more than work than you recall, having a balcony."

The girl nods tentatively.

"How former are your children?"

"Kent's children. They're thirty."

"So they've left dwelling?"

"Obviously."

"And you're lx-three years sometime?"

"Yeah," says Britt-Marie dismissively, equally if this was highly irrelevant.

The girl clears her pharynx as if, really, it's very relevant indeed.

"Well, Britt-Marie, quite honestly, because of the financial crisis and all that, I mean, in that location's a scarcity of jobs for people in your . . . situation."

The girl sounds a flake as if "state of affairs" was not her commencement selection every bit a way of concluding the sentence. Britt-Marie smiles patiently.

"Kent says that the financial crisis is over. He'due south an entrepreneur, yous must sympathize. Then he understands these kind of things, which are possibly a trivial exterior your field of competence."

The girl blinks for an unnecessary amount of time. Checks her watch. She seems uncomfortable, which vexes Britt-Marie. She quickly decides to requite the daughter a compliment, merely to prove her goodwill. She looks around the room for something to compliment her about, and finally manages to say, with as generous a smile as she can muster:

"You have a very modern hairstyle."

"What? Oh. Thanks," she replies, her fingertips moving self-consciously towards her scalp.

"It's very mettlesome of you to vesture your hair and so short when you have such a big brow."

Why does the girl await offended? Britt-Marie wonders. Clearly that's what happens when you lot attempt to be sociable towards young people these days. The girl rises from her chair.

"Thanks for coming, Britt-Marie. Y'all are registered in our database. We'll exist in touch!"

She holds out her hand to say good-bye. Britt-Marie stands up and places the plastic mug of coffee in her hand.

"When?"

"Well, information technology'due south hard to say."

"I suppose I'yard supposed to but sit and await," counters Britt-Marie with a diplomatic smile, "equally if I didn't have anything better to do?"

The girl swallows.

"Well, my colleague will be in bear on with you lot nearly a jobseekers' grooming course, an—"

"I don't want a grade. I desire a job."

"Absolutely, but it'due south difficult to say when something will turn upwardly. . . ."

Britt-Marie takes a notebook from her pocket.

"Shall we say tomorrow, and so?"

"What?"

"Could something turn up tomorrow?"

The girl clears her pharynx.

"Well, it could, or I'd rather . . ."

Britt-Marie gets a pencil from her bag, optics the pencil with some disapproval, and then looks at the girl.

"Might I trouble you lot for a pencil sharpener?" she asks.

"A pencil sharpener?" asks the daughter, as if she had been asked for a k-year-old magical antiquity.

"I need to put our meeting on the listing."

Some people don't understand the value of lists, but Britt-Marie is non ane of those people. She has so many lists that she has to proceed a separate list to list all the lists. Otherwise anything could happen. She could dice. Or forget to buy baking soda.

The daughter offers her a pen and says something to the effect of, "Actually I don't take fourth dimension tomorrow," but Britt-Marie is too busy peering at the pen to hear what she's saying.

"Surely nosotros can't write lists in ink?" she bursts out.

"That's all I've got." The girl says this with some finality. "Is there annihilation else I tin aid you with today, Britt-Marie?"

"Ha," Britt-Marie responds after a moment.

Britt-Marie often says that. "Ha." Not as in "ha-ha" but as in "aha," spoken in a particularly disappointed tone. Like when you detect a moisture towel thrown on the bath floor.

"Ha." Immediately after maxim this, Britt-Marie always firmly closes her oral fissure, to emphasize this is the last thing she intends to say on the subject. Although it rarely is the last thing.

The daughter hesitates. Britt-Marie grasps the pen equally if it's sticky. Looks at the list marked "Tuesday" in her notebook, and, at the summit, in a higher place "Cleaning" and "Shopping," she writes "Unemployment office to contact me."

She easily back the pen.

"It was very overnice to meet you," says the daughter robotically. "We'll exist in bear upon!"

"Ha," says Britt-Marie with a nod.

Britt-Marie leaves the unemployment office. The daughter is patently under the impression that this is the last time they'll meet, considering she's unaware of how scrupulously Britt-Marie sticks to her lists. Conspicuously the daughter has never seen Britt-Marie'due south balcony.

It'south an astonishingly, astonishingly presentable balcony.

Information technology'due south January outside, a wintertime chill in the air merely no snow on the ground—below freezing without whatsoever prove of information technology being and so. The very worst fourth dimension of twelvemonth for balcony plants.

Afterward leaving the unemployment office, Britt-Marie goes to a supermarket that is not her usual supermarket, where she buys everything on her listing. She doesn't like shopping on her own, because she doesn't like pushing the shopping cart. Kent always pushes the shopping cart while Britt-Marie walks at his side and holds on to a corner of information technology. Not because she'south trying to steer, just that she likes holding on to things while he is also holding on to them. For the sake of that feeling they are going somewhere at the same fourth dimension.

She eats her dinner cold at exactly six o'clock. She'due south used to sitting up all nighttime waiting for Kent, so she tries to put his portion in the fridge. But the only refrigerator here is total of very small bottles of alcohol. She lowers herself onto a bed that isn't hers, while rubbing her ring finger, a addiction she falls into when she's nervous.

A few days ago she was sitting on her own bed, spinning her nuptials ring, after cleaning the mattress actress carefully with baking soda. Now she'south rubbing the white marking on her skin where the ring used to be.

The building has an address, but it's certainly neither a place to live nor a home. On the floor are two rectangular plastic boxes for balcony flowers, but the hostel room doesn't accept a balcony. Britt-Marie has no ane to sit up all night waiting for.

But she sits upwards anyway.

ii

The unemployment role opens at 9:00. Britt-Marie waits until nine:02 before going in, because she doesn't want to seem pigheaded.

"Yous were supposed to contact me today," she announces, not at all pigheadedly, when the girl opens her role door.

"What?" the daughter exclaims, her confront entirely liberated from whatever kind of positive emotion. She is surrounded by similarly dressed people clutching plastic mugs. "Erm, look, we're only nigh to brainstorm a coming together. . . ."

"Oh, right. I suppose information technology'due south important?" says Britt-Marie, adjusting a crease in her skirt that only she tin come across.

"Well, yeah . . ."

"And I'm not of import, of course."

The girl contorts herself as if her clothes have of a sudden changed size.

"You know, I told you yesterday I'd be in touch if something turned up. I never said it would be tod—"

"Just I've put it on the list," says Britt-Marie, producing her notebook and pointing at it determinedly. "I wouldn't take put it on the listing if you hadn't said it, you must understand that. And you lot made me write it in ink!�

��

The girl takes a deep breath. "Wait, I'm very sorry if there'southward been a misunderstanding, but I have to go dorsum to my coming together."

"Peradventure yous'd accept more time to find people jobs if y'all didn't spend your days in meetings?" observes Britt-Marie every bit the girl shuts the door.

Britt-Marie is left on her own in the corridor. She notes there are two stickers on the girl'south door, just under the handle. At a elevation where a child would put them. Both take soccer balls on them. This reminds her of Kent, because Kent loves soccer. He loves soccer in a mode that cypher else in his life can live upwardly to. He loves soccer even more than he loves telling anybody how much something costs after he'southward bought information technology.

During the large soccer championships, the crossword supplements are replaced by special soccer sections, and after that it'due south hardly possible to get a sensible discussion out of Kent. If Britt-Marie asks what he wants for dinner, he just mumbles that information technology doesn't matter, without even taking his optics off the folio.

Britt-Marie has never forgiven soccer for that. For taking Kent away from her, and for depriving her of her crossword supplement.

She rubs the white mark on her ring finger. She remembers the last time the morning newspaper replaced the crossword supplement with a soccer section, because she read the paper four times in the promise of finding a small, subconscious crossword somewhere. She never found one, but she did find an article most a woman, the same age as Britt-Marie, who had died. Britt-Marie can't go it out of her head. The commodity described how the woman had lain dead for several weeks before she was plant, after the neighbors made a complaint about a bad smell from her flat. Britt-Marie can't terminate thinking almost that article, can't stop thinking most how vexatious it would exist if the neighbors started complaining most bad smells. Information technology said in the article that the cause of decease had been "natural." A neighbor said that "the woman's dinner was still on the table when the landlord walked into the flat."

Britt-Marie had asked Kent what he thought the woman had eaten. She thought it must be awful to dice in the middle of your dinner, as if the food was terrible. Kent mumbled that it inappreciably made whatever difference, and turned up the book on the TV.

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