murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

seemed to have nothing to say to this. It might have meant nothing to
him. He just lay there on his back, staring at the ceiling. If he hadn't
been blinking every once in a while, he could have passed for dead.
His eyes were bloodshot as if he had been drinking, and each time he
took
a deep breath his nostrils flared a little. Other than that, he didn't move
a muscle, and made no effort to reply to Midori. I couldn't begin to
grasp what he might be thinking or feeling in the murky depths of his
consciousness.
After Midori left, I thought I might try speaking to her father, but I
had no idea what to say to him or how to say it, so I just kept quiet.
Before long, he closed his eyes and went to sleep. I sat on the stool by
the head of the bed and studied the occasional twitching of his nose,
hoping all the while that he wouldn't die now. How strange it would
be, I thought, if this man were to breathe his last with me by his side.
After all, I had just met him for the first time in my life, and the only
thing binding us together was Midori, a girl I happened to know from
my History of Drama class.
He was not dying, though, just sleeping peacefully. Bringing my ear
close to his face, I could hear his faint breathing. I relaxed and chatted
to the wife of the man in the next bed. She talked of nothing but
Midori, assuming I was her boyfriend.
"She's a really wonderful girl," she said. "She takes great care of her
father; she's kind and gentle and sensitive and solid, and on top of all
that, she's pretty. You'd better treat her right. Don't ever let her go.
You won't find another one like her."
"I'll treat her right," I said without elaborating.
"I have a son and daughter at home. He's 17, she's 21, and neither of
them would ever think of coming to the hospital. The minute school
finishes, they're off surfing or dating or whatever. They're terrible.
They squeeze me for all the pocket money they can get and then they
disappear."
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