I don't wear green, I don't own a single green piece of clothing. To me Saint Patrick's Day is nothing but leprechaun Armageddon, an NC-17 version of Christmas minus the presents. Chloe is moderately more liberal, on Sunday she begs me to go out with her and accepts my condition that she has to wear something green. "I do" she says, "you just can't see it".
She quickly disappears into a fog of people somewhere in Tribecca, I end up in a hotel bar drinking Crème de Menthe untill it seems safe to go out again. When she comes back on Monday morning, just before work, she is a few ounces lighter than the night before, her hair like a bird's nest in the early light. "He liked the green I was wearing" she says, holding on to her skirt. "So much so that he kept them as a souvenir."