Chloe is back in New York, she wears night black from her Lanvin ankle boots to the little bow in her hair and seems different. Los Angeles always does that to us, it's a poison that runs in our veins long after we've left. I don't ask, it usually passes and our Christmas flowers are slowly withering away.
We meet for lunch at Gusto, she orders the barbabietola salad and a bottle of white wine for me. She drinks her water carelessly, it spills over the edge of her glass like in an overcrowded swimming pool. When we're done she blows me a kiss and rushes away, I look for distractions and get lost among the designer stores on Spring Street.
People who say you can't buy happiness have clearly never felt mousselline from Chanel between their fingers.