By Dennis Taylor
I liberate my tuxedo from its stale-smelling garment bag. A confused moth flutters weakly toward my lackluster dress shoes below. I spray and wash the entire shirt, with its yellowing collar, pits, and cuffs, until it is soaked. Same with the cummerbund and bow tie. They remind me of aging cheese. I wash all of these alone on the hot cycle, a waste of water and energy. The pants need dry-cleaning and pressing, but lacking time, I iron-sharpen the creases. I inspect the coat for moth holes. None.
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