“I was seeing the Amalfi Coast,” said one of the typically hip guests at Rachel Comey’s dinner cum show. Another ventured, “flamenco.” Comey herself seemed bemused by these suggestions. “It’s always interesting, what people get out of my collections,” she commented, by way of demurral. Nevertheless, the designer’s strongest looks had a strong whiff of romance to them, as though the Comey girl had flung herself into some exotic adventure. You imagined an alluring stranger, a moonlit beach. You saw insouciant trailing hems, fringe and flounces, and vast swaths of collarbone rising above off-the-shoulder tops with dramatic pouf sleeves. The romantic vibe was a by-product, to some extent, of the sheer prettiness of these clothes—a slant prettiness, Comey being Comey, but prettiness nonetheless. And even that, according to her, she came to by accident: The starting point of this collection, the designer recalled, was an experiment with pink acid wash, a denim treatment she expected to be “kind of gross, but in a fun way.” Instead, those pink acid-wash pieces, such as a pair of raw-edged culottes, came out just, well, pretty. And Comey went with it. Embellishments elaborated the theme—that fringe, which looked particularly fine on the show-closing T-shirt and shorts duo in black georgette, and heavy beading on cotton mesh. Like the pouf-sleeve numbers, the collection’s most memorable and evocative silhouette, these looks will do just fine in Brooklyn. Or Silver Lake, or Hackney, or wherever the global urban creative class congregates these days. But the yen for adventure was made apparent—and ratified, you had to think—by Comey’s inclusion of high-fashion fanny packs in the show. Spend a night with a stranger on a moonlit beach, by all means. But watch out for pickpockets.