First Person Singular by Haruki Murakami (best books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

pretty chic—a striped dress in a soft-looking material, and a beige cashmere cardigan. She didn’t have particularly beautiful features, but there was a kind of overall elegance to her. When she was a young woman, she must have been striking. Men must have always been flirting with her. I could sense memories of those days by the the way she held herself.

I called the bartender over, ordered a second vodka gimlet, munched on a few cashews, and went back to reading. Occasionally I touched the knot of my tie. Checking to make sure it was still neatly tied.

About fifteen minutes later, she was seated on the stool beside me. The bar was getting crowded, and she’d slid over to accommodate some newly arrived customers. I was sure now that she was alone. Under the recessed lighting, I read on until I had only a few pages left. The story still showed no signs of picking up.

“Excuse me,” the woman suddenly said.

I raised my head and looked at her.

“You seem so into your book, but I wonder if you’d mind me asking you a question?” For such a petite woman, she had a low, deep voice. Not a cold voice, but certainly not one that sounded friendly, or inviting.

“Of course. This book isn’t exactly spellbinding or anything,” I said. I placed a bookmark inside the novel and shut it.

“What’s so enjoyable about doing things like that?” she asked.

I couldn’t understand what she was getting at. I twisted around to face her directly. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her before. I’m not that great at remembering faces, but I was fairly certain we’d never met. I’d remember meeting her, for sure, if I had. She was that kind of woman.

“Things like that?” I repeated.

“All dressed up, alone at a bar, drinking a gimlet, quietly into your reading.”

Like before, I still had no idea what she was trying to tell me. Though I could sense a kind of malice, an enmity in her tone. I gazed at her, waiting for her to go on. Her face was oddly expressionless. It was like she was determined to conceal any emotion on her face. She was silent for a long time. About a minute, I’d say.

“A vodka gimlet,” I said to break the silence.

“What did you say?”

“It’s not a gimlet, but a vodka gimlet.” A pointless remark, perhaps, but there was a difference.

She gave a small, compact shake of her head, as if flitting away a tiny fly buzzing around her.

“Whatever. But do you think that’s all pretty fantastic? Urbane, stylish, and smart and all?”

I probably should have paid my bill and left as soon as I could. That was the best reaction in a situation like this. The woman, for some reason, was picking a fight. Challenging me. What compelled her to do that, I had no idea. She might have just been in a foul mood. Or else something about me struck her the wrong way, jangled her nerves, irritated her. The chance of anything good coming from an encounter with someone like that was next to zero. The wise choice would have been to politely excuse myself, smile and stand up (the smile was optional), quickly pay my bill, and get as far away as I could. And I couldn’t think of any reason not to. I’m not the type who can’t stand to lose, and I don’t like to fight when I can’t see the justice in it. I’m more into silent, strategic withdrawals.

But for whatever reason, that’s not what I did. Something stopped me. Curiosity, perhaps.

“Pardon me, but are we acquainted?” I ventured.

She narrowed her eyes and stared at me strangely. The frown lines next to her eyes deepened. “Acquainted?” she said, picked up her cocktail glass (this was her third drink, if memory serves), and took a sip of whatever it was inside—what, I had no idea. “Acquainted? How did you come up with that word?”

I searched my memory once more. Had I met this woman somewhere? The answer was—no. Clearly this was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on her.

“I’m thinking you must be mistaking me for someone else,” I said. My voice was strangely flat, expressionless. It didn’t even sound like me.

She smiled faintly, coldly. “Is that what you’re going with?” she said, and set the thin Baccarat cocktail glass back down on the coaster in front of her.

“That’s a lovely suit,” she said. “Though it doesn’t look good on you. It’s like you’re wearing borrowed clothes. And that tie—it doesn’t exactly go with that suit. It’s a little off. The tie is Italian, but the suit, I would say, is British made.”

“You certainly know a lot about clothes.”

“Know a lot about clothes?” She sounded a little taken aback. Her lips parted a fraction, and she gave me a hard stare. “Do you really need to say that? That goes without saying.”

Goes without saying?

I searched my mind for the people I knew in the apparel industry. I only knew a handful, and all were men. None of this made any sense.

Why would this go without saying?

It crossed my mind to explain to her why I was wearing a suit and tie this evening, but I thought better of it. Explaining it wouldn’t blunt the attack mode she was obviously in. It might, in fact, have the opposite effect, and only pour oil on what seemed to be angry flames.

I drank the last drops of my vodka gimlet and quietly got down off the bar stool. This seemed like my chance to put an end to the conversation.

“I think you’re probably not acquainted with me,” she said. I nodded. She was right.

“Not directly,” she went on. “Though we did meet once. We didn’t talk much then, so I think you’re not really acquainted with me. And you were so very busy with other things then. As usual.”

As usual?

“I’m a friend of a friend of yours,” she said in a quietly firm tone. “This close friend of yours—this person