She has opinions about napkins at restaurants. Definite opinions. The weight of the linen, the fold, and whether they've been pressed properly. She notices. She can't help it. Her eye is trained for these things.
She has no opinion whatsoever about what touches her skin for 2,500 hours a year.
This is the strange arithmetic of the private life: the less something is seen, the less it is considered. Her living room has been edited to the inch. Her bed—the actual bed, not the decorative pillows she removes each night and replaces each morning for no one—exists in a category she has never named. Good enough.
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