Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«Yumiyoshi?»

«Yes?»

«Why are you dressed?»

«I wanted to watch you with my clothes on,» she said.

«Mind getting undressed again?» I asked. It was one way to be sure.

«Not at all,» she said, removing her clothes and easing under the covers. She was warm and smooth, with the weight of someone real.

«I told you people don't just disappear,» she said.

Oh really ? I thought as I embraced her. No, anything can happen. This world is more fragile, more tenuous than we could ever know.

Who was skeleton number six then? The Sheep Man? Someone else? Myself? Waiting in that room so dim and dis­tant. Far off, I heard the sound of the old Dolphin Hotel,

like a train in the night. The cr-cr-crr-creaking of the eleva­tor, going up, up, stopping. Someone walking the halls, someone opening a door, someone closing a door. It was the old Dolphin. I could tell. Because I was part of it. And some­one was crying for me. Crying for me because I couldn't cry.

I kissed Yumiyoshi on her eyelids.

She snuggled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep. But I couldn't sleep. It was impossible for my body to sleep. I was as wide awake as a dry well. I held Yumiyoshi tightly, and I cried. I cried inside. I cried for all that I'd lost and all that I'd lose. Yumiyoshi was soft as the ticking of time, her breath leaving a warm, damp spot on my arm. Reality.

Eventually dawn crept up on us. I watched the second hand on the alarm clock going around in real time. Little by little by little, onward.

I knew I would stay.

Seven o'clock came, and summer morning light eased through the window, casting a skewed rectangle on the floor.

«Yumiyoshi,» I whispered. «It's morning.»