A Wild Sheep Chase (The Rat, #3)

by Haruki Murakami

“You always have bad dreams?” “I often have bad dreams. Generally, trauma about vending machines eating my change.”

Let’s see. July 24, 6:30 A.M. Ideal time of year for the beach, ideal time of day. The beach still unspoiled by people. Seabird tracks scattered about the surf’s edge like pine needles after a brisk wind.

So I got up and went over to grind coffee for two cups. It occurred to me after I ground the coffee that what I really wanted was ice tea. I’m forever realizing things too late.

The world had barely changed in ten years. Only the singers and song titles. And my age.

Nor was there any taste to the coffee or crackers. Maybe because of the morning sun? The light of morning decomposes everything.

“I don’t know, there’s something about you. Say there’s an hourglass: the sand’s about to run out. Someone like you can always be counted on to turn the thing over.”

Only to discover: no one sitting at the opposite side of the table. Staring at that chair where no one sat, I felt like a tiny child in a De Chirico painting, left behind all alone in a foreign country.

To her, I was already lost. Even if she still loved me, it didn’t matter. We’d gotten too used to each other’s role. She understood it instinctively; I knew it from experience. There was no hope.

It tasted like the price of the entire dinner.