murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

A few minutes later, Midori took me to the TV room and smoked a
cigarette on the sofa. Three patients in pyjamas were also smoking
there and watching some kind of political discussion programme.
"Hey," whispered Midori with a twinkle in her eye. "That old guy with
the crutches has been looking at my legs ever since we came in. The
one with glasses in the blue pyjamas."
"What do you expect, wearing a skirt like that?"
"It's nice, though. I bet they're all bored. It probably does them good.
Maybe the excitement helps them get better faster."
"As long as it doesn't have the opposite effect."
Midori stared at the smoke rising from her cigarette.
"You know," she said, "my father's not such a bad guy. I get angry
with him sometimes because he says terrible things, but deep down
he's honest and he really loved my mother. In his own way, he's lived
life with all the intensity he could muster. He's a little weak, maybe,
and he has absolutely no head for business, and people don't like him
very much, but he's a hell of a lot better than the cheats and liars who
go round smoothing things over because they're so slick. I'm as bad as
he is about not backing down once I've said something, so we fight a
lot, but really, he's not a bad guy."
Midori took my hand as if she were picking up something someone
had dropped in the street, and placed it on her lap. Half my hand lay
on the skirt, the rest touching her thigh. She looked into my eyes for
some time.
"Sorry to bring you to a place like this," she said, "but would
you mind staying with me a little longer?"
"I'll stay with you all day if you want," I said. "Until five." I like
spending time with you, and I've got nothing else to do."
"How do you usually spend your Sundays?"
"Doing my laundry," I said. "And ironing."
"I don't suppose you want to tell me too much about her ... your
girlfriend?"
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