He still wears his shirt sleeves like Gene Kelly—high and tight. Neat. That doesn’t make me weak in the knees at all. Le nope. His corded forearms are leaving me completely unaffected. It’s fine. I’m fine. The unsettling stomachache reserved for him flutters to focus, right on schedule. It’s really not fair that just his presence and a slight lift of his sleeves have this much of an effect on me. Seriously, I’m as bad as a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankles for the first time.
