text: \[UR\] It is a difficult task, that of dressing well, especially for exceptional occasions. It requires not only a sense of aesthetics and a good eye for detail, but also a perspective on how one is seen by others, a perspective no mirror can offer. One must be able to look at himself through the eyes of work colleagues, friends, and even by passers. That morning, Mr. Pearson made sure to dress at his best. Once showered and donning his undergarments, Mr. Pearson moved to his spacious albeit sparsely furnished bedroom, opened his wardrobe and meticulously inspected the hanging garments, pulling a brand new cotton shirt he had bought the week before, at his favorite grande boutique: the piece was white with thin pink stripes, traditional Italian collar and double French cuffs. For the cufflinks, he chose the model with a hexagonal shape in sterling silver and mother-of-pearl. A frivolous excess, to be sure, but one he could risk; you only live once after all. Covering the well-groomed shirt, his bespoke navy blue double-breasted suit, confected at a small *sartoria* tucked away at Via Solferino*.* The man who sold him the suit was an older gentleman at the time, probably long dead by now. Once Mr. Pearson entered the shop, out of curiosity rather than any compulsion to shop - although this was still his heyday, when money was not an issue - he was intrigued by the many pictures of men in colorful suits adorning the walls of the humble atelier, atypical for the Milanese style, and ended up spending four hours discussing cloth and cut with the owner. After only two fittings and three weeks, the gentleman had delivered Mr. Pearson the best bespoke suits he ever possessed, and for a quarter of the usual price. The navy blue one was the last remaining exemplar after almost a decade, but still fit him perfectly. For shoes, Mr. Pearson went with a pair of brown leather brogue boots. A gift from his now ex-wife for his 60th birthday, the year before. Mr. Pearson looked at himself in the mirror. He imagined his suits with epaulettes and thought to himself he would have made a fine admiral, like his father had wanted. He looked at the dresser to his right and saw, next to the stack of bills and promissory notes, coiled around the half-empty bottle of Four Roses like a beautiful and exotic viper ready to attack, a green *Hermés* polka dot tie. Perhaps even a fine statesmen, he thought. In another life, maybe. Mr. Pearson combed his hair, strapped on his golden-rimmed watch, and walked through the cloud of sprayed perfume in a careful way, so that every single molecule of the *eau de toilette* covered his body like a veil. He then moved resolute towards the large window in his living room, turned the now old, squeaky handles with his right hand and opened them completely. With his two hands, Mr. Pearson grabbed the outer edges of the window, cufflinks making a clicking sounds against the glass, and with his right brown leather brogue boot Mr. Pearson stepped up the window sill, then, in a somewhat untrained and careful movement, brought his left leg up. Standing on the ledge, Mr. Pearson buttoned his suit, pulled it down to fit the shoulders, and with a swift movement left his whole weight fall forward.