This post was brought to you by Chloé Montana Rash, a New York-based filmmaker who counts Palm Beach, Toronto, Paris, and London amongst her former residences. Chloe has excellent taste in food, terrible taste in men, and never discusses love on an empty stomach.
“You haven’t seen Woody Allen play the clarinet here before? I’ve been three times already. I need to take you.”
Ah, those five dreaded words: I need to take you. A new, exceedingly depressing, version of swiping right, sending a DM, and never following through with an actual date. When did it become so easy to “take” people places, without the actual intention of going anywhere?
My eyes fixed at the Madeline cartoon on the wall as you held my hand underneath the ledge of Bemelmans bar at the Carlyle. Your wormlike fingers bulged around mine, reminding me of the balloons in the mural in front of us. On some evenings, you would swap out your lion ring for your grandfather’s silver skull ring; he was a sailor who taught you how to ride motorcycles. I often pictured you on a Harley in one of your bespoke three-piece suits, usually burgundy, with that ring glistening against the handlebar. I had always been suspicious of men who wear jewelry.
