Last Fling of an Octogenarian Where I grew up, there lived a man named David. He drove a Jaguar, spoke with a BBC accent and dressed only ever in a suit and tie. His air was patrician, which disguised - perhaps this was the point - the fact that as a child he was sent to England from South Africa by a wayward mother and brought up, modestly, by strangers. Forty years my senior, David at some point turned numerically old, but his energy never dimmed. His business engagements continued, and he jogged barechested in the rain. His beloved wife, however, developed Alzheimer's. Over time, the disease sealed her world from his and relegated her to a nursing home, where David visited her often, convinced that something still passed between them. And then, not so long ago, David developed prostate cancer. Disdainful of impediments, David did not take his condition seriously, and it eventually became certain it would kill him. He continued to live as before, but the physical decline began, at length, to unfold. Last July I went to visit David at his home with my partner, Monica. He answered the door gaily in his suit and tie; he kissed Monica gallantly and led us to glasses of Champagne. We talked about the state of the world. David was enjoying himself, and still did not look his 81 years. Finally I said, "I hear things aren't going so well for you." Not so well as they used to, Rana. I have all this external plumbing now under my suit, which makes life a bit harder. But I'm still working, still getting about. When you get to my age, you know you're crawling toward the thin end of the branch. At some point it has to break. A few weeks after this, my father called me, agitated. David had telephoned him at 6 o'clock that morning. He rushed across the road to discover David prostrate on the kitchen floor, where he had been lying for six hours, waiting for a decent time to call. David was a full head taller than my father, who, 73 himself, could not lift him. My mother came to help and, over the next hour, they heaved David up the stairs. David himself could offer nothing: he was physically spent, his limbs shook violently and his eyes were wide with horror. All his sacks burst open during the climb, covering the stairs in urine and feces. "He's such a proud man," wept my father on the phone. I think his heart broke today. It was true. David went into a nursing home the next day, became rapidly delirious, and soon after, he died. When I think of him now, I cannot forget a story he told during that final encounter. David frequently hosted meetings in a particular hotel. Over time he became friendly with the hotel receptionist, and one day, in the February before his death, he invited her out to lunch. She was 37. "Of course I felt guilty," David said. But I had been living alone for so long, and I yearned for the companionship of a woman. And I didn't think it could harm my wife. She was lost to this world. The receptionist was a single mother whose experience of men had not been happy, and she enjoyed David's attentiveness and charm. After a number of rendezvous, he invited her to accompany him to a ball in a country mansion. "She had never been to anything like that before," he said. She didn't even have a dress to wear. So we went out to buy one: you should have seen her when she tried it on. There was nothing octogenarian about his ardor. "And I said: that dress needs a necklace," he continued. So we went to Tiffany's, and in the window was a diamond necklace that cost 200,000 pounds -  You didn't! But we were living a fairy tale, so nothing mattered. We tried on the necklace in the window, and I told Tiffany's it wasn't good enough for that neck. We couldn't stop laughing. The ball was magical, and David found himself in love. He proposed a spring weekend in Paris. He planned everything down to the last detail: lunches and dinners and boat rides on the Seine. He dreamed of romance and candlelit Champagne. And suddenly, when they were there, in the city of lovers, the Eiffel Tower prodding the sky, everything came crashing down. David was assailed by the mismatch between this courtship and his condition. I wasn't what she needed! She needed a man her own age, and a father for her children. I had sacks strapped to my thighs; I couldn't even make love to her. The whole thing was absurd. They returned mutely to England, and he never saw her again. When he told the story in July, he wept like a teenager who had lost a first love. Rana Dasgupta is the author, most recently, of "Solo," a novel. E-mail submissions for Lives to lives@nytimes.com. Because of the volume of e-mail, the magazine cannot respond to every submission.