Amélie

You want me... want what?

Any normal girl would call the number straightaway, meet him at a café to return the album. Then she would know if her dream was viable. It's called a reality check, but it's the last thing Amélie wants.

— I see you've never known true love.
— I did. It shortened my leg.

Luck is like the Tour de France. You wait, and it flashes past you.

— I do remember she casually asked if you had a girlfriend. I said you weren't interested, right?
— You didn't!

Like Don Quixote, she pitted herself against the grinding windmill of all life's miseries. It was a losing battle that claimed her life too soon.

Boys? I've known so many. They're cute until they discover snowballs and chestnuts.

— Stop smothering them! Women need to breathe.
— You let them breathe, they want a change of air.

Still, true love does exist.

Nino is late. Amélie can only think of two possible explanations.
Firstly, that he didn't find the photo.
Secondly, before he could assemble it, a gang of bank robbers took him hostage. The cops gave chase. They got away, but he caused a crash. When he came to, he'd lost his memory, An ex-con picked him up, mistook him for a fugitive, and shipped him to Istanbul. He met some Afghan raiders, who took him to steal some Russian warheads. But their truck hit a mine at the border with Tajikistan. He survived, took to the hills, and became a Mujaheddin. Amélie refuses to get upset for a guy who'll eat borscht all his life in a hat like a tea cosy.

He's understood. He's going to put his teaspoon down, dip his finger in the sugar, turn around slowly, and speak to me.

It's better to help people than garden gnomes.

You need a glass of mulled wine.

Deprived of playmates, tossed about between a neurotic and an iceberg, Amelie retreats into her imagination.

As for blonde or dark... it's hard to say, but she wasn't a redhead.

If she had a clear conscience, she wouldn't be in such a state.