murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

Naoko called me the following Saturday, and that Sunday we had a
date. I suppose I can call it a date. I can't think of a better word for it.
As before, we walked the streets. We stopped somewhere
for coffee, walked some more, had dinner in the evening, and
said goodbye. Again, she talked only in snatches, but this didn't seem
to bother her, and I made no special effort to keep the conversation
going. We talked about whatever came to mind - our daily routines,
our colleges; each a little fragment that led nowhere. We said nothing
at all about the past. And mainly, we walked - and walked, and
walked. Fortunately, Tokyo is such a big city we could never have
covered it all.
We kept on walking like this almost every weekend. She would lead,
and I would follow close behind. Naoko had a variety of hairslides
and always wore them with her right ear exposed. I remember her
most clearly this way, from the back. She would toy with her hairslide
whenever she felt embarrassed by something. And she was always
dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief. She did this whenever she
had something to say. The more I observed these habits of hers, the
more I came to like her.
Naoko went to a girls' college on the rural western edge of Tokyo, a
nice little place famous for its teaching of English.
Nearby was a narrow irrigation canal with clean, clear water, and
Naoko and I would often walk along its banks. Sometimes she would
invite me up to her flat and cook for me. It never seemed to concern
her that the two of us were in such close quarters together. The room
was small and neat and so lacking in frills that only the stockings
drying in the corner by the window gave any hint that a girl lived
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