The Last Button…

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

I'm a writer and a lover not a fighter, except if I really want something.

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