New York, I Love You | 2009

Pardon. Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.

This yours?

Um, it is. It must have fallen out of my bag.

It was on the floor near the bathroom.

That was really nice of you. How can I thank you?

I wouldn't mind if you bought me a drink.

Great. What would you like?

Whatever you're having. Two gin and tonics, no ice.

Losing your cell phone's like losing your mind.

Do you come here a lot?

I do. A lot. Too much.

Long story.

Tell me.

I've got a ton of time.

I only saw my dad once in my whole life,

right here.

When my mom was pregnant with me,

she never told him.

Just left him.

Growing up, she had a lot of boyfriends.

Went through one after another.

Always left them.

Every time she'd leave a man, though,

she'd keep something, like a souvenir.

Maybe a book or a necklace or a painting.

When she left my dad, she kept me.

I was her souvenir.

Before she died, she gave me a piece of paper

with his name and number on it.

I called him up, and we met here.

I said one thing to him.

What did you say?

"Dad."

That's it?

"I'm a gift for you, from Mom."

Thank you.

I walk past your flower room every day.

I see you, but I say nothing.

I'm so afraid to look at you. Oh, girl.

You say I'm the strongest. I say you're the kindest.