Her coat was cherry red, bold and pretty, as if it had become her petals, making a rose of her soul.
His coat was a mid-blue leather that spoke of the ocean hues in the later afternoon, in that time of day rarely spoken of, for it is not sunrise nor sunset, it is not the noontide either. It is one of those times that we rarely savour, yet should, as a reader should love every page and not simply clamour for the ending.
It was a well sewn sheepskin jacket, the kind that aged well, the kind you wished for when the wind told wintry tales.
The coat was the kind of soft brown that brought foamed latte to the thoughts. It was well shaped, feminine, with a lab made fleece lining and fur trim. It was the kind of coat that would keep a girl warm in any winter, even if all she wore underneath was a summer dress.
It was a dress coat of flowing black wool, the kind that looked so conservative yet sexy combined with long leather boots.
She was Paddington Bear in her duffle coat, a strapped bag upon one shoulder, yet neither was she lost and she never much cared for marmalade. So, this was St Pancras station, this was London.
The coat was a satin black quilt, neatly formed and well fitting.
The coat was a simply frame, it was the sweet person within it that held my eye.