Her ankles had been crossed for hours, a neat, unyielding knot as she sipped tea and listened. But when he shifted in his chair, his knee brushing the edge of her seat, she let her legs fall open, slow as a sigh, her skirt settling in a soft arc that revealed a sliver of stocking. It wasn’t a stretch, wasn’t a fidget—just a quiet realignment, deliberate as a handshake.
Comfort would have been a quick, unconscious movement. This was intentional: the tilt of her hip, the way her foot inched toward his, the faint lift of her eyebrow when he glanced down. Older women don’t waste gestures on accidents. They learn to speak in half-moves, in pauses, in the space between crossing and uncrossing—knowing that some invitations are too precious to shout.
He leaned forward, his elbow resting on his knee, and her smile deepened, though she said nothing. This was the dance: she opened the door, and he stepped through. Uncrossing her legs wasn’t about ease. It was about trust—letting him see that she was willing to make space, to let him in, to say come closer without ever forming the words.