I sit at the table and remove my feet. I ponder whether to remove my lower leg but decide that would be too forward. My feet take their place next to the chair when doubt creeps in. Do I know this woman well enough to remove my limbs? Perhaps she didn’t notice. She’s younger than me, and might have different rules of etiquette.
Imagine my relief when she takes her seat and detaches her forearm. It crawls across the table and holds my hand. My feet creep across the carpet and settle next to hers. Our fingers dance around the plates.