Buttondown

He rolls his selves  exactly half way up his arms everyday of the year. 

No matter the season, his  fingers, his hands, his wrists and that select 4 inches of skin- all remain exposed. 

When the cold comes in,  I tug my shirt sleeves down past my fingernails; while he passes by seemingly immune to the fact that his arm hairs are reaching new heights. 

in the thick, damp heat, the sweat collects beneath his cotton stripes, fighting to escape from perfectly folded exits. 

He's consistent I'll give him that- but he's stubborn too. 

Why can't he see that its okay to indulge in the protection of a nice winter sweater. He doesn't have to make things hard from himself. Does he desire no luxuries? Has he already lost feeling?

Why must he force his body to cry beneath the disguise of a button down. One must be comfortable in order to have fun.  He deserves to escape into a comfortable T-shirt.

At the end of the day it's his call.

He could indulge if he wanted to. He could be comfortable if he wanted to. He could have feeling if he wanted to.

But he'll choose to stick with the routine.