His first stop was , a dusty corner shop where the air smelled like old paper and forgotten summers. The proprietor, a woman named Clara with spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, looked up from a ledger.
"You look like a man with a heavy overcoat and a light conscience," the consultant said, sliding a matte-black, wide-shouldered hanger across the table. It had a notched grip and a swivel hook that moved with the grace of a watch gear.
"I need hangers," Arthur said, perhaps a bit too breathlessly.
Arthur looked at his pile of twenty shirts back home. "I’ll... keep looking."
He had the keys, the lease, and the view, but he had forgotten the skeleton of a home: the coat hangers.
"It’s just a piece of wire, Arthur," he muttered, grabbing his keys. "How hard can it be?"