Lars kiggede på Freja.

Lars looked at Freja.

De sad i København, midt på Strøget.

They were sitting in Copenhagen, right in the middle of Strøget.

Det var sommer.

It was summer.

Mennesker lavede sommermennesketing.

People were doing summer-y things.

Is spistes.

Ice cream was being eaten.

Tøj shoppedes.

Clothes were being shopped for.

Latter lød.

Laughter filled the air.

Lars havde en udfordring.

Lars had a challenge.

Han skulle udtale noget svært.

He had to pronounce something difficult.

Han skulle sige "rødgrød med fløde".

He had to say "rødgrød med fløde."

Men det var svært.

But it was hard.

Det krøllede på tungen.

It tangled on his tongue.

"Prøv igen, Lars," sagde Freja.

"Try again, Lars," said Freja.

Hun smilede.

She smiled.

Lars rystede på hovedet.

Lars shook his head.

Havde travlt med at spise sin softice.

Busy finishing his soft ice cream.

Men Freja kunne være sød.

But Freja could be sweet.

Og meget stædig.

And very stubborn.

"Igen, Lars," sagde hun.

"Again, Lars," she said.

Lars løftede øjenbrynet.

Lars raised an eyebrow.

Sugede det sidste af isen op.

Finished sucking the last bit of his ice cream.

Så tog han en dyb vejrtrækning.

Then he took a deep breath.

Han skulle prøve.

He had to try.

"Rødgrød med fløde," sagde han.

"Rødgrød med fløde," he said.

Men det lød sjovt.

But it sounded funny.

Det lød ikke som Frejas.

Not like Freja's.

Lars lavede en grimasse.

Lars made a face.

Freja grinede.

Freja laughed.

"Måske skal du prøve at synge det," foreslog Freja.

"Maybe you should try singing it," suggested Freja.

Lars så på hende.

Lars looked at her.

Skævede til Rosenborg Slot i det fjerne.

Glanced at Rosenborg Castle in the distance.

Han trak på skuldrene.

He shrugged.

"Rødgrød med fløde," sang han.

"Rødgrød med fløde," he sang.

Men det lød stadig sjovt.

But it still sounded funny.

Ikke helt forkert.

Not quite wrong.

Men også ikke helt rigtigt.

But also not quite right.

Freja grinede igen.

Freja laughed again.

Strøg ham blidt på kinden.

Gently stroked his cheek.

"Du er sød, selvom du siger det sjovt," sagde hun.

"You're sweet, even though you say it funny," she said.

Vinden tog fat i træerne.

The wind rustled the trees.

Folk begyndte at finde vej hjem.

People started to find their way home.

Lars så på Freja.

Lars looked at Freja.

Gav hende et trygt klem.

Gave her a reassuring hug.

Solen begyndte at gå ned.

The sun began to set.

Strøget blev stille.

Strøget became quiet.

Kun lyden af Lars's stemme fyldte luften.

Only the sound of Lars's voice filled the air.

"Rødgrød med fløde," sagde han.

"Rødgrød med fløde," he said.

Denne gang lød det bedre.

This time it sounded better.

Mere rigtigt.

More correct.

Lars så på Freja, hun nikkede.

Lars looked at Freja, she nodded.

"Helt korrekt," sagde hun.

"Exactly right," she said.

Sammen gik de hen mod deres cykler.

Together, they walked towards their bikes.

Lars smilede.

Lars smiled.

Han havde gjort det.

He had done it.

Han kunne sige "rødgrød med fløde".

He could say "rødgrød med fløde."

Han havde vundet en lille sejr.

He had won a small victory.

Ikke stor.

Not big.

Men heller ikke lille.

But not small either.

Den var vigtig.

It was important.

Den sidste solstråle døde ud.

The last ray of sunlight faded away.

København blev mørk.

Copenhagen grew dark.

Men Lars og Freja cyklede hjemme.

But Lars and Freja cycled home.

Lykkelige.

Happy.

Sammen.

Together.

En perfekt sommeraften i København.

A perfect summer evening in Copenhagen.

Og Lars kunne sige "rødgrød med fløde".

And Lars could say "rødgrød med fløde."

Freja grinede.

Freja laughed.

Måske var det nu Lars's tur til at lære Freja noget.

Maybe it was now Lars's turn to teach Freja something.

En ny dag ventede.

A new day awaited.

En ny udfordring.

A new challenge.

Men det kunne vente.

But that could wait.

Indtil da ville de nyde deres sejr.

Until then, they would enjoy their victory.

Og drømme om "rødgrød med fløde".

And dream about "rødgrød med fløde."