The tailor's hands run over my body, tugging and straightening, making sure the suit sits well. It is fine as hell. I admire my body garbed in silk, and later, when the sow I do not love but with whom I share my bed has fallen asleep, I continue gazing at my form in the dim light of the bedroom mirror. The suit is in the closet now; without it, I see the sagging flesh where once was muscle, blotches where my skin used to be a perfect hue of pink.
The suit is fine as hell, and I...