Original subtitles

One sunny morning in November.

I met a girl in Harajuku who was 100% me.

She wasn't beautiful, nor dressed particularly well.

Her hair was like she'd just got up.

And she was maybe near 30.

But I could tell, from 50 meters off, that she was a pure 100% all me.

The moment I saw her, my heart began to jump

and my mouth went all dry.

- Saw this girl, a real 100% me. - That beautiful?

- Not really. - Then just your type?

- Well, probably. - Probably?

I don't remember any details.

Like the color of her eyes, or the size of her breasts.

I just don't remember.

What? Not even how big they were?

No.

You ought to be more careful.

What about her ankles?

Ankles?

Did she have nice ankles?

Who cares about ankles?

For 100% you got to check the ankles.

What's this about ankles? It's the breasts that count.

Ankles, ankles, ankles...

Anyway, I can't remember and that is really strange.

- Strange, isn't it? - Really strange.

Well...

What happened then?

You talk to her? You follow her?

Nothing. I just walked on.

I'd like to talk with her, if only for half an hour.

She'd tell me all about her. I'd tell her all about me.

But mostly we'd talk about our fated meeting that sunny morning.

In November, in Harajuku, on that street back in 1983.

It would be our sweet secret, sort of like remembering war in days of peace.

Then after we had talked for a while, we'd see a Woody Allen movie.

Then we'd have a cocktail in a hotel bar.

And then, after that, we might just go and make love the whole night long.

Maybe.

So, then. How should I go about beginning now?

Excuse me, can I talk to you for half an hour?

Stupid!

I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

Hi'ya, babe! Wanna have a little fun?

That's too sleazy.

I ought to be more straight-forward.

Hello, you are a girl who is 100% me.

Sorry, even if I am 100% you, you're not 100% me you see.

She might talk like that.

I'd be apt to get confused in that situation.

It's age. I'm 32 already.

Of course, now I really know how to go about it.

But it would be a very long story and I couldn't have done it well.

Everything I think about becomes impractical.

Anyway, it should start with "Once upon a time..."

And end "Isn't that a sad story?"

Once upon a time, there was a girl and a boy.

He was 18, she was 16.

They weren't handsome, nor beautiful.

Just ordinary-young, lonely.

But they believed there was someone 100% them - each.

One day though they met by chance.

What a surprise! I've been looking for you.

You may not believe this but you're the girl who's 100% me.

Well, and you're the boy who's 100% me.

It's all just like I imagined it. Like a dream.

So they sat down on the bench and talked and talked.

And they weren't lonely anymore.

To turn out to be each other's 100%, what a grand experience!

But then a small doubt crossed their minds.

This dream's coming true too easily.

Let's try again.

If we really are each other's 100%, then we're destined to meet again.

So if we meet somewhere and we're still each other's 100%...

Then we get married.

- Agreed? - All right.

And so they parted.

They needn't have, because they were real 100% lovers.

So from then on fate began to have its way.

One winter they both caught malignant influenza

and for long weeks hung between life and death.

Recovered memories as empty as D.H. Lawrence's piggy-bank...

They were still bright and patient and tried very hard.

They acquired new knowledge.

New emotions.

They could change subway trains.

They could send special deliveries at the PO.

They even had a romance of 75% and one of 85%.

So now the boy was 32 and the girl was 30,

and time had passed with an amazing swiftness.

One rainy day in November.

The boy was again in Harajuku, going west to east.

And the girl was there, going from east to west,

just like 14 years before they passed.

The dim glow of a lost memory momentarily flickered.

She is the girl who is 100% me.

He is the boy who is 100% me.

But the memories were dim, no longer like 14 years before.

They passed without a word and became lost in the crowd.

Isn't that a sad story?

Tempted by the light of street lamps...

Night birds on the guard rail rest their wings.

A voice sounds from far away.

To whom does that voice call?

I'm looking for you until the morning comes.

At this busy street corner, avoiding the late sun...

The angels of the night move into the starlight.

Anyone can be a hero in one short step...

Even though someone might trap him.

I'm looking for you until the morning comes.

I'm looking for you until the morning comes.

Translated by Donald Richie