The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Andrea Lee Reads Haruki Murakami

The New Yorker: Fiction

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I Sat at a Bar, and I Said, Oh, I Still Remember

"I happened to come into the shop and happened to run into him. We chatted for a while, but our conversation went nowhere," she writes. "He told me about the harbor in tunesia and about the shrimp they catched there." The story ran out half way through, like a trickle of water being sucked up by sand,. He raised his hand, called a waiter over and ordered a second cup of cafe olet. 'Why don't we have a nice long talk about it next time? There is no reason to keep him any longer'

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