Writing About Body Language Novels & Stories

If he didn't like the fact that I touched him, all he had to do was tell me and I'd stop, it if there was a different kind of way he liked being touched, he could tell me and if it's something I could do, then I would do it. "You can talk to me you know, I'm not going to be mad" I whispered to him gently, he looked at me with those lost eyes again, melting my heart and pushing away the heartless part of me deep inside the darkest place in my mind "Look I know, you don't really feel comfortable around me yet, I'm not dumb, I can read body language" I explained, watching as he almost wanted to say something but I shushed him, I needed to say this at least before he said something else that wou

Malachi works best when everything is prompt and precise. I use that same scrutinizing eye to read the body language of the man in front of me even as he still stretches out his hand. He tries well to hide he has any emotions. From his face to the dark colors he’s clothed in, I guess he’s trying to be in character. I can still see it though.

Their conversation was too low for Dana to catch more than a few words but their body language speaks volume. She took careful step closely to them,she stood close to the wall behind them, the warriors eyes darted around as if checking for any eavesdroppers.The warrior posture was stiffened his head tilting casually to check if anyone is walking closely, the worker posture was stiffened, her eyes glancing over shoulders, her fingers were clutching together and her body was tensed and nervous. Dana stepped forward, making her presence know to them, she folded her arms across her chest. Her gaze lingered on them.

She leans in and says in a lowered voice, "Can you all watch the table beside you? The guy is giving me some creeptastic vibes and the girl is eating that appetizer like she hasn't eaten in the last six years." Leighton turns away and immediately my attention goes to the couple at the table beside us. I can't see the woman's face, but one of my strengths is reading body language. Hers says she's highly tense, uncomfortable, and possibly scared, given the way her foot taps against the floor. Her back is ramrod straight, one hand is gripping the table, and there's an iciness in the way she's holding herself.

“Not because of blackmail. Not because of the syndicate. Because I can’t imagine the rest of my life without you in it.” The words hit me hard. The link flared with warmth real affection, obsession, and that terrifying love we’d both been circling. My breath hitched visibly on camera. Harlan watched with clinical interest, like we were lab rats. “Better. The body language is improving. Brooks, you’re leaning into him naturally now. The anxiety lines around your eyes are softer when he touches you. The link is doing its job beautifully.”

"The writing can happen later. The body remembers now. Writing is the translation of the body's memory into the mind's language. The translation takes time. It cannot be rushed. I have what I need. The rest will come." They sat in the departure lounge for another hour. They did not talk much. The silence between them was the silence of two people who had been traveling together for eight days and had said most of what needed to be said and did not need to fill the space with words. The silence was comfortable—not the managed silence of the early years, when silence had felt like a test, like something that needed to be filled before it could become an accusation. The silence was the silence

There it is. Everyone has a tell. Everyone has some small, unconscious movement that reveals what they're actually feeling beneath the performance. Most people have dozens — they cross their arms when they're defensive, touch their faces when they're anxious, lean forward when they're interested. The best people — the ones who've learned to control their external presentation — have fewer. But everyone has at least one. You just have to know what you're looking for. I close my laptop. I've been watching Celeste Laurent speak for nearly an hour, and I've learned more from that single finger tap than from everything else combined.

“Good. But you’re tense. Your shoulders are bunched. You’re waiting for something to happen.” I forced myself to relax, letting my muscles soften, my face turning to the side on the pillow. The bed dipped as one of them—Nathan, by the lighter tread—sat on the edge near my hip. “The second lesson,” he said, “is about communication without words. You’ll learn to use your body to tell us what you need. And we’ll use ours to tell you what we want.” A hand brushed down my spine, trailing from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. I shivered, arching into the touch instinctively.