murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

She looked into my eyes, and I into hers. I put my arm around her and
kissed her. The slightest twinge went through her shoulders, and then
she relaxed and closed her eyes for several seconds. The early autumn
sun cast the shadow of her lashes on her cheek, and I could see it
trembling in outline.
It was a soft and gentle kiss, one not meant to lead beyond itself. I
would probably not have kissed Midori that day if we hadn't spent the
afternoon on the laundry deck in the sun, drinking beer and watching a
fire, and she no doubt felt the same. After a long time of watching the
glittering rooftops and the smoke and the red dragonflies and other
things, we had felt something warm and close, and we both probably
wanted, half-consciously, to preserve that mood in some form. It was
that kind of kiss. But as with all kisses, it was not without a certain
element of danger.
The first to speak was Midori. She held my hand and told me, with
what seemed like some difficulty, that she was seeing someone. I said
that I had sensed as much.
"Do you have a girl you like?" she asked.
"I do," I said.
"But you're always free on Sundays, right?" "It's very complicated," I
said.
And then I realized that the brief spell of the early autumn afternoon
had vanished.
At five I said I had to go to work and suggested that Midori come with
me for a snack. She said she had to stay home in case the phone rang.
"I hate waiting at home all day for a call. When I spend the day alone,
I feel as if my flesh is rotting little by little - rotting and melting until
there's nothing left but a green puddle that gets sucked down into the
earth. And all that stays behind are my clothes. That's how it feels to
me, waiting indoors all day." "I'll keep you company next time you
have to wait for a
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