murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

at the end I added: Waiting for your
answer is one of the most painful things I have ever been through. At
least let me know whether or not I hurt you. When I posted it,
I felt as if the cavern inside me had grown again.
That June I went out with Nagasawa twice again to sleep with girls. It
was easy both times. The first girl put up a terrific struggle when I
tried to get her undressed and into the hotel bed, but when I began
reading alone because it just wasn't worth it, she came over and started
nuzzling me. And after I had done it with the second one, she started
asking me all kinds of personal questions - how many girls had I slept
with? Where was I from? Which university did I go to? What kind of
music did I like? Had I ever read any novels by Osamu Dazai? Where
would I like to go if I could travel abroad? Did I think her nipples
were too big? I made up some answers and went to sleep, but next
morning she said she wanted to have breakfast with me, and she kept
up the stream of questions
over the tasteless eggs and toast and coffee. What kind of work did my
father do? Did I get good marks at school? What month was I born?
Had I ever eaten frogs? She was giving me a headache, so as soon as
we had finished eating I said I had to go to work.
"Will I ever see you again?" she asked with a sad look.
"Oh, I'm sure we'll meet again somewhere before long," I said, and
left. What the hell am I doing? I started wondering as soon as I was
alone, feeling disgusted with myself. And yet it was all I could do. My
body was hungering for women. All the time I was sleeping with
those girls I thought about Naoko: the white shape of her naked body
in the darkness, her sighs, the sound of the rain. The more I thought
about these things, the hungrier my body grew. I went up to the roof
with my whisky and asked myself where I thought I was heading.
Finally, at the beginning of July, a letter came from Naoko. A short
letter.
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