Page 30 of The Happiness Blueprint
• NEW TASK:Can you see this, Klara?
Reply (Klara): Received, with many thanks.
Survived a week at work. More than survived. When you are busy working there is no time to think about your dead brother or if you have met all your milestones a year ahead of turning thirty. No clue about that last one. No one has invited me to any milestone checks since I was five, only a full physical at the GP with blood pressure and cholesterol screening when I turned twenty-nine. How would I know if I had failed at life since they stop checking on us in adulthood? No one goesDo you eat a varied diet, Alex? Can you think of three topics for small talk in a minute? Put these two in order of importance, a working movie-streaming subscription or a pension fund?We are left hanging, wondering if we are normal.
I stretch the sharp, stiff measuring tape out along the wood. It has a light brown color with patterns that are circular. It would have been cut from a fairly young tree; the outer side of the trunk is my guess. I run my finger over it, it’s polished perfectly, smooth and flexible. I mark it with my pencil (which needs sharpening) and go to run it through the cutting machine to take the ends off. There is no need to try it against the wall—I know that the skirting will fit. That’s numbers for you. It’s not a guessing game. The one thing I excelled at in school was numbers. The noise rings in my ear and through to my brain, the front of my forehead wobbling like jelly from riding the sound waves. Should remember to wear my noise dampeners next time.
My boss has asked me to teach her as long as it’s no trouble. Must stop calling her that; she has a name. In fact, it’s a nice name.Klara.It meansmanagein Swedish and comes from the Latin forbrightorclear. She does seem like someone who can manage a lot of things, the type of person you’d say has a lot on her plate. The clear part, however, not too sure. She seems rather distracted and has a foggy sadness about her that I can’t figure out the origins of. I keep wanting to make her smile because when she does, she lives up to her name. Clear, transparent and unclouded. Bright, even.
Have to say, for someone whose name meansclearandmanaging, she is surprisingly bad at timekeeping and has poor organizational skills. Not sure if I should offer help or if it will be met by her trademark murder stare. Learning how to avoid it as best I can. For example, she prefers messages to calls. The first day I made the mistake of calling, and I swear the murder stare was so strong I could feel it through the phone.
“Who even calls these days? I thought it was an emergency.” (Klara)
“Phones are still in use, you know. Acceptable and efficient way of communication.” (Me)
“Acceptable in an emergency. Is there one?” (Klara)
“You have a point, I guess. Mostly salespeople and the—” I stop myself from addingtherapy receptionist“—dental office calls me.” Great. Now she’ll wonder what big issue I have with my teeth. Only issue in that department is that my mouth is too big for my own good.
Teaching her is no trouble at all. In theory. Practically, it kind of is. It’s a shame wood can’t stop me being distracted by Klara when it works wonders in the other areas of my life. The trouble is, I’m way too aware of where she is in the room. Felt relief when I figured out that my possessiveness must be because she has a medical condition—it’s only right that if I work with her I should be alert. It’s practically myresponsibility, part of my role. As a fellow human. Nothing else. Definitely nothing else. Depressed and not even looking at women.
Ended up in a Google trap last night of researching diabetes (again, myresponsibilityreally), and it’s fascinating. The math aspect is fascinating. Carbohydrates in versus glucose spent and then the insulin acts as a variable that affects them both.
Earn myself another murder stare this morning.
“I know you have diabetes, and you don’t have to tell me everything, but I’d like to know a little, so I can help you if you need it. Since we work together now,” I say.
She full body sighs.
“I’m not incapacitated, Alex. I just have unpredictable blood sugar. I know myself and my body well enough by now. That includes my limits. But if you must know—if I’m low, I need sugar. If I’m high, I need insulin. It’s all in my bum bag. That’s all you need to know. Please don’t bring it up again.”
“Here I was thinking you were trying to be stylish.” I point at the black Nike accessory that clings to her softly contoured waist.
“Have you seen me? Style and Klara don’t go together.” She sticks a plank under my nose, arms stretched out. I wonder why she doesn’t just take a step forward: she’s so far away from me she looks like she’s about to fall over. “Is this good?” she asks.
I tell her yes, and then I hesitate because I don’t want to overstep some boundary—she loves aboundary,it seems. But she did just stick a plank under my nose, and when I stepped toward her, she was so close I could feel her breath against my chest. Not that I was thinking about it. The breath. Or the mouth that it came from. Force myself to focus on something else. Like her clothes. They are a soft blue sweater and black pants that may or may not be leggings.
“Why don’t we grab some lunch? Skip the quick sandwich for once,” I suggest. “Seeing that we both need to eat, we could just go together.”
We head to a small Japanese lunch restaurant close to the train station. There’s not a single Japanese person, staff included. I take a poke bowl, Klara goes for sushi. She explains her diet to me, the brief version. Seems incredibly complicated. Can’t judge, though, as mine currently exists of pizzas and jalapeños.
“Ants are off-limits then, you know, if you ever go somewhere they serve them dipped in chocolate. A single ant can live until it’s twenty-nine,” I say, hoping to impress her with this piece of knowledge.
“What about a married one?” I love that she laughs as much as I do at her joke.
She dips her sushi rice first into the sauce, and the sauce travels through it coloring half of the rice brown. You are meant to put the fish in first, I’ve read it so many times but I don’t tell her. Perhaps she has a reason for it—Klara has a lot of reasons for a lot of things. I think hard about what to say, all the questions I want to ask are too personal, even for someone without a murder stare. Do you have a boyfriend? Have you permanently moved in with your dad? How did you get the scar on your chin? How do you like your eggs for breakfast?
I settle for this: “How are you enjoying your time in Sweden?”
“Honest answer? It feels strange. The place has evolved since I left. I keep repeating phrases and expressions that were popular in the 2010s. When I left, we were dancing to Girls Aloud and Abba-Teens. Have you always lived here?”
“Malmö? Yes. I’m happy in the city. I never tried the countryside where you are. I like the fact there is always someone around. I don’t have to make an effort to socialize,” I say. Hope she doesn’t find me boring. Never been anywhere, never done anything, stable Alex always staying in his lane.
“I guess that’s the benefit of marriage as well. Even with all its challenges, you have someone around,” she remarks, and I think of Calle. And Dan. Because they’re the married people I know. I touch my ring. “I wouldn’t know, of course. Is that how it is?” she asks, and I look up.
“Yes,” I say, thoughts elsewhere. She stares at her phone, then at me. She has moved forward on her chair as if ready to sprint off. “I guess that’s what being married gives you. Comfort.”
Talk of marriage seems to unsettle Klara. Her large earrings are very still against her cheeks. Then they jump to life again.
