“Wait a second.” I told him. I ducked my head down and looked under the table to position my feet so that they were pointing directly at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Pointing my feet towards you.”

“…May I inquire as to why?”

“I read on the internet,” I explained, looking down at the empty plate before me, “that when a person’s feet face toward you when they are talking, it is a sign that they are interested in you. I just do not want to give the wrong message, you see.”

“Why is that?” His expression was amused now.

“Because,” I replied, in a tired voice, “if I do give the wrong message then some sort of unprecedented misunderstanding will occur between us and then you’ll go off with some other girl which would cause me to become distraught and inconsolable and no longer being able to find any meaning in life I would proceed to the roof of a building to commit suicide and you, being in love with me still, would pursue me and try to stop me but fall to your noble death instead, and I would be understandably grieved and turn into a cranky, bitter old lady who throws people’s slippers off the balconies for no reason whatsoever.”

He thought about this for a moment, then lifted the tablecloth to check his feet.