(no subject)
This is what I do for homework at 2 AM. No, really. BTW, I suck at translating.
Murakami Haruki, from Yume de Aimashou (Let's meet in a dream)
Elevator
“Please say your destination floor at this time,” said the elevator girl
“The 176th,” said a middle-aged man
“176th floor.”
“The 328th,” said a young girl. She had really pretty feet.
“328th floor.”
“The 413rd,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” said the elevator girl as if she really was sorry.
“This elevator stops at the 390th floor.”
“Well, that’s troubling,” I said. “I forgot three pairs of socks on the 413rd floor.”
“Well, then why don’t you come to my room,” the girl with pretty feet whispered sweetly. “It’s the 328th floor, but I do have socks.”
I was hoping.
Her room was lovely. The lighting and the furniture and the music and the air conditioning setting and the carpet’s softness, everything was ideal. As if she went and found out my preferences beforehand, everything around me suit me perfectly. If I was James Bond, I would start getting suspicious, but, quite unfortunately, I’m not James Bond. I’m not Mike Hammer or Lew Archer or Philip Marlowe or Matt Helm, for that matter. Maybe there’s something wonderful about being a normal person.
While sipping chilled champagne, we talked about music, literature, sports and upkeep of tropical fish for hours on end. Our interests matched so well that it seemed to be too good to even be a miracle. And yet, the three pairs of socks I left were bugging me just a bit.
“Oh yes, the socks,” as she says that, she shows me to another room and, without a sound, pulls open a drawer in a mahogany dresser. There, like jewels, lined up close to two hundred pairs of socks of various colours.
“What do you think?”
“Beautiful,” I breathed out. “This is really amazing.”
“If you want, all of them are yours.”
I pulled her in close to me, and with a rustle her nightgown fell on the bed.
That is how I came to own two hundred pairs of socks.
Murakami Haruki, from Yume de Aimashou (Let's meet in a dream)
Elevator
“Please say your destination floor at this time,” said the elevator girl
“The 176th,” said a middle-aged man
“176th floor.”
“The 328th,” said a young girl. She had really pretty feet.
“328th floor.”
“The 413rd,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” said the elevator girl as if she really was sorry.
“This elevator stops at the 390th floor.”
“Well, that’s troubling,” I said. “I forgot three pairs of socks on the 413rd floor.”
“Well, then why don’t you come to my room,” the girl with pretty feet whispered sweetly. “It’s the 328th floor, but I do have socks.”
I was hoping.
Her room was lovely. The lighting and the furniture and the music and the air conditioning setting and the carpet’s softness, everything was ideal. As if she went and found out my preferences beforehand, everything around me suit me perfectly. If I was James Bond, I would start getting suspicious, but, quite unfortunately, I’m not James Bond. I’m not Mike Hammer or Lew Archer or Philip Marlowe or Matt Helm, for that matter. Maybe there’s something wonderful about being a normal person.
While sipping chilled champagne, we talked about music, literature, sports and upkeep of tropical fish for hours on end. Our interests matched so well that it seemed to be too good to even be a miracle. And yet, the three pairs of socks I left were bugging me just a bit.
“Oh yes, the socks,” as she says that, she shows me to another room and, without a sound, pulls open a drawer in a mahogany dresser. There, like jewels, lined up close to two hundred pairs of socks of various colours.
“What do you think?”
“Beautiful,” I breathed out. “This is really amazing.”
“If you want, all of them are yours.”
I pulled her in close to me, and with a rustle her nightgown fell on the bed.
That is how I came to own two hundred pairs of socks.