Fortuitous Poem by Haruki Murakami

She looked to be in her mid-fifties.
She was short and stocky, and from behind, had a weird sort of gait, like a crustacean.
She wore tiny metal-framed glasses, but the space between her eyebrows was flat and broad and you could clearly see the downy hair growing there.
She had on a wool suit of indeterminate age, though no doubt it was already out of fashion by the time it was manufactured, and it carried with it a faint odor of mothballs.
The suit was pink, but an odd sort of pink, like some other color had been accidentally mixed in.
They had probably been aiming for a classy subdued sort of hue, but because they didn’t get it right, the pink of her suit sank deeply back into diffidence, concealment, and resignation.
Thanks to this, the brand-new white blouse peeking out of the collar looked like some indiscreet person that had wandered into a wake.
Her dry hair, with some white strands mixed in, was pinned back with a plastic clip, probably the nearest thing she had had on hand.
He limbs were on the beefy side, and she wore no rings on her stubby fingers.
There were three thin wrinkles at her neckline, sharply etched, like notches on the road of life.
Or maybe they were marks to commemorate when three wishes had come true—though he had serious doubts that this had ever happened.