murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

"Or is it that you don't like being with me? You want to go back to
your room as soon as possible, is that it?" she said with a playful
smile.
"No way," I said.
"All right, then. Don't stand on ceremony. It's a short walk."
Hatsumi's flat was a 15-minute walk from Shibuya towards Ebisu. By
no means a glamorous building, it was more than decent, with a nice
little lobby and a lift. Hatsumi sat me at the kitchen table and went to
the bedroom to change. She came out wearing a Princeton hooded
sweatshirt and cotton trousers - and no more gold earrings. Setting a
first-aid box on the table, she undid my bandage, checked to see that
the wound was still sealed, put a little disinfectant on the area and tied
a new bandage over the cut. She did all this like an expert. "How come
you're so good at so many things?" I asked.
"I used to do volunteer work at a hospital. Kind of like playing nurse.
That's how I learned."
When Hatsumi had finished with the bandage, she went and fetched
two cans of beer from the fridge. She drank half of hers, and I drank
mine plus the half she left. Then she showed me pictures of the other
girls in her club. She was right: some of them were cute.
"Any time you decide you want a girlfriend, come to me," she said.
"I'll fix you up straight away."
"Yes, Miss."
'All right, Toru, tell me the truth. You think I'm an old matchmaker,
don't you?"
"To some extent," I said, telling her the truth, but with a smile.
Hatsumi smiled, too. She looked good when she smiled.
"Tell me something else, Toru," she said. "What do you think about
Nagasawa and me?"
"What do you mean what do I think? About what?"
"About what I ought to do. From now on."
"It doesn't matter what I think," I said, taking a slug of cold beer.
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