
Rebecca Curtis Reads Haruki Murakami
The New Yorker: Fiction
The Shingowa Monkey
My handbag was found outside a small police station near the park. The cash was still inside, as were my credit cards, a t m card and selphone. Only my driver's license was gone. I really didn't want to think that the shinegawa monkey was back to stealing names. He told me quite matter of factly that having seven women's names talked inside him was plenty.
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