Ta det långa benet före
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the apartment, casting soft, dusty beams of light across the living room floor. It was a perfect Sunday in the city, quiet, golden, and peaceful.
Arthur, a man who organized his socks by color and his books by genre, was standing in the kitchen. He was fully dressed in a crisp navy sweater and pressed chinos, holding two travel mugs of coffee. He checked his wristwatch. He checked the wall clock. He checked the microwave clock. They were all in perfect agreement: it was 8:38 AM.
The train to the coastal town, where the annual flea market was held, departed at 9:05 AM. The walk to the station took exactly eighteen minutes at a moderate pace, or fourteen minutes at a brisk pace.
Arthur took a deep breath and walked into the bedroom.
A large lump under a mountain of quilts was the only evidence of his husband, Ben. Ben was not organized by color or genre. Ben was an artist who believed that time was a fluid concept, much like watercolor paint.
"Ben," Arthur said, his voice calm but firm. "We have to leave in twelve minutes."
The lump groaned. A hand emerged from the duvet, blindly patting the nightstand until it found glasses, which were pulled into the darkness of the blanket fort.
"It’s Sunday," a muffled voice complained. "Sundays are for pancakes. Not for running."
"We discussed this," Arthur said, pulling the curtains open. "The vintage lamp. The one with the brass base. If we don’t get there early, the dealers sell all the good stuff to the intense people who bring their own magnifying glasses."
Ben threw the covers off, revealing a head of hair that defied gravity. "I am intense," he said, yawning. "I am extremely intense."
"You are wearing pyjamas with penguins on them," Arthur noted. "Go. Move."
What followed was a spectacle of controlled chaos. While Arthur stood by the front door, backpack packed with snacks, water, and a train schedule, Ben became a whirlwind. He couldn't find his favorite yellow scarf. He couldn't decide between the brown boots or the sneakers. He stopped to water a fern that looked slightly thirsty.
"Ben!" Arthur called from the hallway. "8:48!"
"I can't find the keys!" Ben shouted from the bedroom.
"I have the keys! I have your keys and my keys! Just bring yourself!"
Finally, at 8:51 AM, Ben burst into the hallway, wearing one brown boot and one sneaker, his coat buttoned wrong, and the yellow scarf trailing behind him like a superhero cape.
"I’m ready!" Ben declared, breathless.
"Shoes," Arthur pointed out. "Change it. You have thirty seconds."
At 8:53 AM, they spilled out of the apartment building and onto the sidewalk. The air was crisp and cold, the kind that bites at your nose. The city was slowly waking up, but Arthur and Ben were already in full gear.
"Okay," Arthur said, checking his watch again. "We have lost the buffer time. We are now in the red zone."
"We can make it," Ben said, adjusting his scarf as they began to power-walk down the avenue. "I’ll use my aerodynamic charm."
They walked fast. Then, they were doing that strange half-jog that people do when they don't want to admit they are running.
The problem was the distractions. Ben loved the world too much.
"Oh, look!" Ben pointed as they passed Gable’s fence. "She painted her gnome collection!"
"Don't look at the gnomes, Ben," Arthur said, staring straight ahead.
"But the one with the fishing rod has a new hat!"
They turned the corner onto another Street. The clock on the bank tower loomed ahead. It read 8:59 AM. They had six minutes to cover four blocks and navigate the station stairs.
Suddenly, the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls wafted out of the corner bakery. It was a thick, sugary cloud of temptation. Ben’s pace slowed visibly. His nose twitched. He looked like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill.
"Maybe just one bun?" Ben asked, his eyes glazing over. "For energy?"
Arthur realized that desperate measures were needed. He grabbed Ben’s hand, interlacing their fingers tight. He looked at the station in the distance, then back at his husband who was being seduced by pastry.
"Ben, listen to me," Arthur said, picking up the pace until they were at a full jog. "No buns. Not now. Ta det långa benet före!"
Ben laughed, his legs pumping harder to keep up with Arthur’s long strides. He loved it when Arthur’s Swedish heritage came out in moments of high stress. "Okay! I’m taking it!"
They flew past the bakery. They flew past the post office. A pigeon had to dive-bomb out of their way.
"I feel very athletic!" Ben shouted over the wind rushing in his ears. "Is this what sports are like?"
They reached the station entrance at 9:03 AM. They bounded up the stairs two at a time. Ben’s scarf was flapping wildly. Arthur was checking the platform number—Platform 4. Of course, it was the one furthest away.
They reached the ticket barriers. Arthur tapped his card. Beep. Open. Ben tapped his card. Beep. "Seek Assistance."
"No, no, no," Ben groaned, tapping it again frantically.
"Jump it!" Arthur suggested, a rare moment of rule-breaking rebellion.
"I can't jump it, I'm wearing tight denim!" Ben cried. He tried the card one last time, wiggling it with magical intention. Beep. Open.
They scrambled through and ran down the length of the platform. The conductor was already raising his whistle to his lips. The engine was humming, ready to pull away.
"Wait!" Ben yelled, waving his arms.
They threw themselves through the open doors of the last carriage just as the whistle blew. The doors hissed shut behind them with a satisfying thump.
The train lurched forward.
Arthur and Ben stood in the vestibule, chests heaving, faces red, gasping for air. The adrenaline was still spiking through their veins.
Ben slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, laughing breathlessly. "We... we made it."
Arthur leaned against the door, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. He looked down at Ben, messy hair, cheeks flushed pink, mismatched socks peeking out from his boots (which he had apparently failed to notice earlier).
"We made it," Arthur agreed, a smile breaking through his serious composure. He reached a hand down to help Ben up.
"That was exciting," Ben said, taking Arthur's hand and pulling himself up, then pulling Arthur into a hug. "But next time, maybe we wake up ten minutes earlier?"
"I woke you up twenty minutes early," Arthur pointed out, wrapping his arms around Ben’s waist. "You just spent that time debating the emotional validity of wearing a scarf indoors."
"It was an important debate." Ben kissed Arthur’s cheek.
"It was necessary," Arthur said, leading them into the carriage to find seats.
Ben grinned, resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder as the city landscape outside the window began to blur into green fields. "I promise to run fast for you anytime, babe. Especially if there's a vintage lamp at the finish line."
"Good," Arthur said, opening his backpack and revealing a tupperware container. "Now, would you like the cinnamon bun I bought yesterday and packed for you?"
Ben’s eyes went wide. "You are the greatest man in history."
Arthur just smiled and handed him the bun. The train rattled on, speeding toward the sea, carrying them away on another Sunday adventure.
Ta det långa benet före
It means to hurry up or to leave very quickly. It describes the physical action of lengthening your stride, taking big, long steps to move as fast as possible.
It is often used when someone needs to rush off to catch something.
