She crosses her legs the other way. Right over left. A reset.
She crosses her legs again ten minutes later—but differently. Playfully. This time, the cross isn’t a wall. It’s a flirtation. A shape she chooses, not a fortress she hides behind.
Samir reaches over—not for her hand, but to place a small stone from the garden into her palm. “Anchor,” he says. “So you don’t float away.”
She deliberately uncrosses her legs. One knee touches his as he sits beside her. She doesn’t flinch.
Christelle feels caught. Not accused. Seen.
He puts his hand on her knee. She doesn’t move it.
They call it The Uncrossing.
