Crossed legs

The waitress held up the bottle, head held at an enquiring angle. She waggled the bottle. I smiled and shrugged and held out my glass and tried to think of the word for "thankyou" in this strange, perplexing language. In the end, I raised the glass and nodded in her direction.

The waitress retreated behind the bar and I turned my attention to the other customers. The tall woman sitting at the table in the window was reading a paperback with its cover turned back on itself. She was wearing large sunglasses that made her look like an exotic, jewelled insect. Unconsciously, she uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

The third customer was a pale man with dark eyebrows that stood out like exclamation marks. They made his face look artificially dramatic, like an actor in stage make-up crossing the foyer before the play begins. When the dragonfly woman crossed her legs, he crossed to her table, tilted back one of the chairs and held out an open hand. She looked up from her book and shrugged acquiescence. He sat down, resting his hand on the table - almost touching hers - and leant forward, talking urgently.

As he spoke, he moved his hand so that his little finger touched her wrist. She leaned back towards him and his finger moved in circles against her arm.

Suddenly, she stiffened and pulled her hand away from his. She held herself away from him for a second and then leaned in and whispered something in his ear. He moved his chair away from her with a loud scraping noise. It was his turn to unconsciously cross his legs. He bent forward with his hands held protectively in front of his lap.