Not tomorrow, not next week, not next month.

Eleven o'clock had come and gone. I had to find a way to bring this conversation to a successful conclusion and get out of there. But before I could say anything, she asked me to hold her.
"Why?" I asked, caught off guard.
"To charge my batteries," she said.
"Charge your batteries?"
"My body has run out of electricity. I haven't been able to sleep for days now. The minute I get to sleep I wake up, and then I can't get back to sleep. I can't think. When I get like that, somebody has to charge my batteries. Otherwise, I can't go on living. It's true."
I peered into her eyes, wondering if she was still drunk, but they were once again her usual cool, intelligent eyes. She was far from drunk.
"But you're getting married next week. You can have him hold you all you want. Every night. That's what marriage is for. You'll never run out of electricity again."
"The problem is now," she said. "Not tomorrow, not next week, not next month. I'm out of electricity now."

[ Haruki Murakami: The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. ]