“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Looking for the cat,” I said.
“Are you sure? It doesn’t look that way to me. You’re just sitting there and whistling with your eyes closed. It’d be kinda hard to find much of anything that way, don’t you think?”
I felt myself blushing.
“It doesn’t bother me,” she went on, “but somebody who doesn’t know you might think you were some kind of pervert.” She paused. “You’re not a pervert, are you?”
“Probably not,” I said.
She approached me and undertook a careful study of the nested lawn chairs, choosing one without too much dirt on it and doing one more close inspection before setting it on the ground and lowering herself into it.
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami
Хроника на птицата с пружина