murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

"My friend died the night after our last game together," I said.
"So you stopped playing?"
"No, not really," I said after giving it some thought. "I just never had
the opportunity to play after that. That's all." "How did your friend
die?"
"Traffic accident."
She made several more shots, aiming with deadly seriousness and
adjusting the strength of each shot with precision. Watching her in
action - her carefully set hair swept back out of her eyes, golden
earrings sparkling, court shoes set firmly on the floor, lovely, slender
fingers pressing the green baize as she took her shot - I felt as if her
side of the scruffy pool hall had been transformed into part of some
elegant social event. I had never spent time with her alone before, and
this was a marvellous experience for me, as though I had been drawn
up to a higher plane of life. At the end of the third game - in which, of
course, she crushed me again -my cut began to throb, and so we
stopped playing.
"I'm sorry," she said with what seemed like genuine concern, "I should
never have suggested this."
"That's OK," I said. "It's not a bad cut, I enjoyed playing. Really."
As we were leaving the pool hall, the skinny woman owner said to
Hatsumi, "You've a good eye, sister." Hatsumi gave her a sweet smile
and thanked her as she paid the bill.
"Does it hurt?" she asked when we were outside.
"Not much," I said.
"Do you think it opened?"
"No, it's probably OK."
"I know! You should come to my place. I'll change your bandage for
you. I've got disinfectant and everything. Come on, I'm right over
there."
I told her it wasn't worth worrying about, that I'd be OK, but she
insisted we had to check to see if the cut had opened or not.
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