When it’s cold outside, and I really want to warm up, I think about fur coats. Then I go to the closet and look at my mink fur coats, and choose one to wear. Slowly lifting it off the hanger, making sure that each side is delicately removed, I feel the thick, soft fur.
Dense and shiny, the fur is a deep, dark brown. I place one arm in a sleeve, and lifting the other side up above my other shoulder, I insert my other arm into the warm sleeve. The coat is heavy, and its smell is musky, and comforting. When I smooth the fur to keep it the direction in one grain, its sheen reflects the light of my foyer, and it shimmers as I move. It tickles my chin when I bring the two sides together so that it covers my neck completely. It reaches past my knees and, enveloped, I feel like a queen of a kingdom.
When I step outside, the fur rustles from the wind, but I feel nothing but warmth. Elegant, I stroll, watching snowflakes hit the ground and glisten on individual hairs of my coat. Nothing is as warm as a fur fur coats, I think to myself, striding along. Nothing.