Flatiron Lounge Friday night, I'm seconds away from leaving with a Johnny Depp wannabe when Chloe stops me. "Look at his shoes" she whispers, "do you really want that on your conscience?" She's right, as always, I tell him I have an important business meeting, just to see his reaction, then turn around quickly to make sure he doesn't get a chance to reply.
Three drinks later we're back out on 5th going north, arm in arm. Chloe is the sister I never had and not the kind of girl who walks around with a can of mace in her purse. When she says that nothing stains a men's shirt better than bullet holes and gun powder, she means it.
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