Fur Coat

There's a woman in a fur coat standing around like some rich barbarian peddling her class. The coat is thick and tan with occasional tufts of brown and white sticking outwards, riding the air currents. She contemplates a breakfast danish in the basement of Grand Central Station. The beasts, whose misfortune has them sewn around the ugly woman, are hugging her from ankle to neck. The warm skins that once hugged their own bodies cannot thaw her. She catches me staring and shoots me a look of sheer granite.
They are so carefully killed - the fur must not be damaged. A life in a cage - a paw, half gnawed off, in the trap - a quick snap of the neck - an electric rod up the anus - a holocaust shower room - a heavy foot on the lung so hags can drag their weighty pretense up and down and through midtown.

She must be thinking how dare I judge her. How dare I take one look and have it settled. Alright. Maybe she does know. Maybe she's realized that her bulky gorilla cape did not simply materialize. Fine. She's considered it's history, it's lack of necessity, it's waste. But she's also considered it's meaning. It's symbol. Like a unlimited, round-trip ticket to stuffy shiraz and brie parties - an all access pass to the Plaza hotel - a barrier between not only the body and the cold, but the haves and the have-nots.

I suddenly want to rip it... dump my tea on it... something. She'd only buy a new one though, and with a vengence. She has her human justifications. The coat is more real than her warmth or her ignorance.