How long has it been going on?
He's such a pain in the ass.
And you've never seen her?
She really might be ugly.
Or even disabled.
You should add that after the poem:
'by the way, how much do you weigh'?
Thanks a lot for your
useful advice, Driss.
Let's get back to it.
Where was I?
I think a sphynx was eating daisies,
running in the fields, doing weird stuff.
'strange and symbolic nature'
And in this strange and
You have to call her.
– Where the pure angel merges
with the antic sphynx…
I'm telling you. Call her.
Spot it, Driss.
I'm better at written communication.
Alright, but I'm gonna look for her
phone number, it stresses me out.
She's from the north…
that's not good.
Leave this envelope.
Never has a 'Miss France' come from the north.
They usually look like crap over there.
Give the envelope back now.
She wrote her phone number, god damn it.
It's a sign. She wants you to call her!
Please. Let it go.
She wrote her phone number, Philippe.
What do you think? It means «Call Me».
«I want to lick your ear lobe».
– Of course, Philippe.
– You're not calling her, are you?
She doesn't give a shit about poetry.
Six fucking months of poetry…
– I won't talk to her.
– I'm gonna check if she has a weird accent.
Northern accent sucks…
Put down the phone!
– She wants a piece of Philippe.
– She's gonna have some.
Nice voice, for a start.
– Improvise, talk about daisies and shit…
– It's Philippe.