100% Perfect Girl - Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable neighbourhood Harujuku, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

To tell you the truth, she is not that good looking. She does not stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She is not young either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She is the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there is a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favourite type of girl - one with slim ankles, or say, big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you are drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I will catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine, because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can claim that his 100% perfect girl corresponds to some preconceived ideal type. As much as I like noses, I can not recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It is weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favourite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."....