“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
Ever since that day, Sumire’s private name for Miu was Sputnik Sweetheart. She Loved the sound of it. It made her think of Laika, the dog. The man-made satellite streaking soundlessly across the blackness of outer space. The dark, lustrous eyes of the dog gazing out of the tiny window. In the infinite loneliness of space, what could Laika possibly be looking at?
Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami