When she uncrossed her legs without looking up, it wasn’t to relax—it was to see if he’d flinch. The movement was so smooth it seemed accidental, a shift of weight that barely rustled her skirt. But in the quiet of the diner booth, with the clatter of dishes fading into the background, it held the tension of a loaded question.
He was telling a story about his latest fishing trip, hands gesturing broadly, when her legs unfolded. Her ankles crossed now, one foot brushing the edge of his shoe. She kept her eyes on her coffee cup, stirring the sugar with a spoon as if the conversation barely registered. But she was watching—through the corner of her eye, through the prickle of awareness that comes from decades of reading reactions like a well-thumbed book.
This was their dance, honed over 40 years of marriage. A tilt of the head, a pause in the laughter, a foot grazing his under the table—each a test, gentle but unyielding. She wanted to know if he was really listening, if his mind was wandering to the bills or the leaky faucet, or if he was still present, still attuned to her, even in the mundane.
He didn’t flinch. His voice didn’t falter. Instead, his toes curled slightly, brushing hers back—a silent acknowledgment, a signal that he’d noticed. She smiled into her cup, the ghost of a laugh escaping as she took a sip. The story continued, but something had shifted, a current of connection reignited by that small, deliberate movement.
It was the kind of gesture that didn’t need words. She’d used it on first dates, on arguments that threatened to boil over, on quiet mornings when the world felt too heavy. Uncrossing her legs without looking up was her way of saying, “Prove it. Show me you’re here, fully, with me.” And he, after all these years, still knew how to respond—not with grand declarations, but with the steady, unflinching presence she’d always craved.