The Quiet Tax

I own seven coats. I wear two.

This isn’t a problem. This is the problem already solved.

My hand knows before I do. The navy wool, third from the left. I reach for it in the dark of the closet without looking, without deciding. The decision was made years ago. Now it’s just fact—the way my coffee order is fact, the way my signature is fact. The last thing I put on is the first thing anyone sees.

The coat is different from everything else in the closet because it’s the only thing anyone sees complete.

Think about it. At dinner, you’re visible from the chest up. In a meeting, the table cuts you off at the waist. On a video call, you’re a floating rectangle. The dress, the trousers, the blouse—all fragments. Cropped by furniture and angles and the reality of where bodies end up in a room.