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Summary
In the privacy of the dim hallway, you shoot yourself a tiny smile of triumph in the mirror. You think you may finally have done it -- maybe, just maybe, you have finally outmaneuvered your brilliant, exasperating brother. There’s no way he could be expecting this. He probably thinks you’ll turn up in a baby blue thrift-store suit with threadbare polyester cuffs, elbows shiny with wear. It’s the kind of thing he’d do and pass it off as ironic. But tonight, you’re going all out; you’ve shot so far past irony that you’re right back at sincerity again, and if you’re secretly hoping that the sincerity takes his breath away a little bit, well, maybe that’s just the kind of sick fuck you are.