Coats moving behind the counter

An original literary non-fiction-style account of waiting in a dry-cleaning shop while a coat is collected.

Behind the counter, the coats moved before anybody touched them. A rail began to travel, bringing sleeves, collars and numbered tags around a bend in the wall. The shop assistant watched the tags pass. To me, the garments looked like a queue whose owners had briefly stepped out of themselves.

A red sleeve appeared between two dark jackets. Then a sleeve with a loose belt hanging beside it, then the smooth shoulder of an evening dress. They advanced at the same unhurried pace. Expensive and ordinary, short and long, they accepted the order of the rail without the small negotiations people make in a queue. Nobody checked a watch. Nobody tried to move closer to the front.

The assistant stopped the movement and lifted down a brown coat. Its empty shape collapsed softly over her arm. She checked the tag against the slip in my hand, then spread it on the counter to show me a repaired lining. I recognised the little uneven stitch beside the pocket. Until that moment, the coat had looked less like mine than like one example of a coat.

As I put it on, the shoulder found its familiar place. One cuff fell lower than the other because I had not pulled the sleeve through properly. The assistant pointed it out, smiling, and I straightened it. Behind her, the rail started again. The other coats continued their patient journey while mine became awkwardly, specifically occupied.

How does the writer use language to present the garments and the change when the narrator puts on the coat?