"It's Black Tie", she ventured softly. He thought he saw her wince.
She could see his chest heave quietly. And though he remained silent, she could sense that he did not hold the same enthusiasm for a champagne and swirling around the room in a chiffon ball gown night. She pouted for a moment and he relented.
The dust engulfed his head as the black "straight jacket" escaped from it's plastic coffin.
"Was I twelve when I last worn this thing?" he muttered to himself.
He caught a sideways glance of his stomach in the mirror as he slipped on the jacket. He thought he heard the telltale snap of some ancient thread, but he pressed on. Gazing at the starched white ruffles and the noose like black tie on the bed, he again gave a heavy sigh.
"I'm gonna need some Jack before I try that."
Laurel. Love Black Tie. He doesn't.