Rick, I have to talk to you.
I saved my first drink to have with you. Here.
No, Rick. Not tonight.
Especially tonight.
Why did you have to come to Casablanca?
There are other places.
I wouldn't have come if I'd known you were here.
Believe me, Rick, it's true. I didn't know.
It's funny about your voice, how it hasn't changed.
I can still hear it.
"Richard, dear, I'll go with you anyplace. We'll get on a train and never stop."
Don't, Rick.
I can understand how you feel.
You understand how I feel.
How long was it we had, honey?
I didn't count the days.
Well, I did.
Every one of them.
Mostly I remember the last one.
The wild finish. A guy standing on a station platform in the rain with a comical look on his face because his insides have  been kicked out.
Can I tell you a story, Rick?
Does it got a wild finish?
I don't know the finish yet.
Go on, tell it. Maybe one'll come to you as you go along.
It's about a girl who had just come to Paris from her home in Oslo.
At the house of some friends she met a man about whom she'd heard her whole life.
A very great and courageous man.
He opened up for her a whole beautiful world full of knowledge and thoughts and ideals.
Everything she knew or ever became was because of him.
And she looked up to him and worshiped him with a feeling she supposed was love.
Yes, that's very pretty.
I heard a story once.
In fact, I've heard a lot of stories in my time.
They went along with the sound of a tinny piano playing in the parlor downstairs.
"Mister, I met a man once when I was a kid," they'd always begin.
I guess neither one of our stories is very funny.
Tell me who was it you left me for?
Was it Laszlo, or were there others in between or aren't you the kind that tells?