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Listen, kid, pull up a chair. Back in my day, we didn’t have apps that swipe left faster than a carhop hustling steak sandwiches at Jerry’s. We had front porches, Sunday drives, and the occasional chocolate malt at Bert’s. But the one eternal truth hasn’t changed since Adam first noticed Eve adjusting her fig leaf: pay no attention to what she says. Watch what she does.
Your grandmother, God rest her, once told me straight to her face she wasn’t interested in “any fool boy with more hair tonic than sense.” Then she spent the entire church social batting her eyes at me like I was Clark Gable, flipping her hair every time I opened my mouth, and “accidentally” brushing my arm while reaching for the potato salad. Later we’d sit with two straws and one malt, and she’d swear up and down we were “just friends.” Actions, my boy. Always the actions.
These days you young people are drowning in words—texts, DMs, “It’s not you, it’s me” voice notes delivered at 2 a.m. Forget all that noise. If you want to know if she’s sweet on you, study the silent movie playing right in front of you. The body doesn’t lie, even when the lips are reciting polite script.
First off, the eyes. If she’s holding your gaze a beat longer than strictly necessary while you’re waiting on that order, or giving you those quick darting glances across the room, that’s interest. Dilated pupils? That’s the nervous system waving a little flag. But if she’s staring at her phone like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls while you’re talking, well, son, you might as well be invisible.
Then there’s the hair. Lord, the hair. Women have been weaponizing it since Cleopatra. If she’s twirling a strand or tossing it back, she’s preening. It’s the human equivalent of a peacock spreading its tail. My generation called it “fixing her feathers.” Recognize the signal.
Watch how she sits. Feet pointing toward you? Body leaning in like she’s sharing secrets? That’s her subconscious saying, “Stay awhile.” If she mirrors the way you cross your legs or takes a sip at the same moment you do, congratulations—you’ve achieved unconscious synchronization. Scientists probably have a fancy name for it. I call it “she’s into you.”
And touch. Gentle, casual touch is the international Morse code of affection. A light tap on the forearm while the carhop swings by. Fingers grazing yours when you hand her a napkin. Brushing imaginary lint off your shoulder. These are not accidents. My buddy Earl once spent an entire double date talking about his stamp collection while his girl kept finding reasons to poke him in the ribs. They’ve been married forty-three years. She still claims she married him for his mind. Earl just winks.
Of course, the opposite signals are equally honest. Arms crossed like she’s guarding the Crown Jewels while the food gets cold? Body angled toward the parking lot? That’s her polite way of saying she’s calculating how soon she can invent an early morning meeting. Don’t take it personally. Even the best hitters strike out.
Modern dating has complicated things with all this “talking stage” nonsense. Everybody’s discussing their “intentions” and “trauma dumps” and “love languages” like they’re negotiating a treaty. Meanwhile the oldest language in the world is sitting right there, waving its hands. She can tell you she’s “not looking for anything serious” while her knees keep drifting closer to yours under the table. Believe the knees, not the script.
I told your father the same thing when he was mooning over your mother. “Son,” I said, “she says she just wants to be friends, but she laughed at all your terrible jokes and kept showing you the inside of her wrist like it was the Hope Diamond. Friends don’t do that.” He finally worked up the courage to kiss her. She kissed him back, then spent the next week telling her girlfriends she wasn’t sure about him. They’ve been married sixty-two years and still argue over who gets the last sip.
The secret, kid, is confidence without arrogance. Notice the signals, but don’t catalog them like some biology project. Respond in kind. Lean in when she leans in. Smile when she smiles. And for heaven’s sake, if she’s giving you the green lights, don’t sit there analyzing it until the opportunity melts away.
Dating has always been part comedy, part detective work. The words are the script. The body language is the truth flickering behind the lines. Your grandmother always denied she was flirting that first night, but I’d catch a certain sparkle in her eye whenever I reminded her how she “accidentally” dropped her napkin three times just so I’d have to pick it up.
Listen to what they say if you want conversation. Watch what they do if you want the truth. And if you get it wrong? Well, that’s what grandpas are for. I’ve got more stories. Pass the coffee.
