The brittle corpse of a moth tumbled from the jacket as he brought it out of the wardrobe. He examined the material carefully. Cuffs usually were the first to be devoured, but only a few pinpricks were visible. Once upon a time the elegant black dinner suit was pressed and worn weekly or more. The thrill of those days came back to him, in a moment of delight and astonishment at the flood of memory. The amount he’d drunk! He remembered Cathy as she was back then, how she’d set her cap at him. Too much of a lady to be overtly flirtatious, it had taken her a long time to convey her interest, poor love. Then that night, that ball (and her ravishing midnight blue gown) had awakened in him the realisation that she could, indeed, be the one. He missed her, dully now after the years gone by, but no less deeply. He eased the jacket off its hanger and onto his stiff shoulders. A little loose it hung around the arms, but the fit was still good. He straightened up in the mirror, adjusted his bow tie, turned and left for his last ball.