Every time I pass by Rockefeller Center I think of Chloe. She's the only daughter of a very wealthy industrialist of the old sort, the kind that built this city in the 30s but are now long gone. He wasn't around much when she was little and tried to compensate for it when the battles were already lost and it was too late for excuses. She doesn't talk much about it but I know it still hurts her. She always wanted to be a daddy's girl and she would have been fantastic at it, sometimes I think it's the only thing she's ever been missing.
The upside to it is that she can spend endless days with me in a city far across the wasteland, away from her family in Los Angeles, without being accused of running away. Sunday afternoon we're chasing shadows down Broadway, making our way through crowds of people arm in arm when suddenly I freeze like a marble statue just outside SoHo's Bloomingdale's. Chloe turns around and asks me what's wrong, a chill runs down my spine at 200 mph.
"I thought I saw her" I reply, "the lady in black". Chloe grabs my arm, drags me to Washington Square Park without saying a single word, sits me down on the spring grass and looks deep into my eyes. "Tell me everything" she says, so I do. She looks so happy, as if she's stumbled upon a treasure she didn't even know she had been looking for. "This is fantastic" she says, "I just found a new short term purpose in life. We have to find her".