Romance on the 166

Snatches of phrases waft over my seat:
“Where were you originally from?”
“Brooklyn,” she says,
as her peals of laughter
sprinkle smiling passengers like confetti.

I strain to listen to his questions.
They must be charming and witty,
for she answers with seductive giggles,
The lilt in her laughter reminds me
of Eartha Kitt singing, “Santa Baby.”

He cheerfully confesses he’s a computer geek
on his way to work at the Rockefeller lab.
In a British accent, it sounds like she says
she’s doing ultrasound at a hospital downtown.

I’m reluctant to turn around,
but glance at them when they stand.
A freckle-faced football player
towers over a petite,
mahogany-colored, young woman
with a radiant presence.

He writes her phone number
on the back of his hand;
they disappear going down the stairs,
her infectious laughter trailing behind them
like sparkly white streaks of light
from a meteor shower.