Manicured fingers press against the smooth pearl buttons. The arms rest squarely again the soft cotton – is that Pinpoint? Twill? Maybe Herringbone? Pressed up against this comfort, eyes still never leave your face.
One at a time. Finally, the last button. You know what this means. Leaning in. The very faint smell of spicy cologne. The smell of you. A deep inhale. A breath of fresh air. Hands push against your shoulders. The starched shirt falls like a cloud on to the floor in sartorial splendor.
Music mood: “If you wait” – London Grammar