Ah, she tilts her head

to laugh with her friend,

the one with the red rug

of curls laid tightly over scalp,

and what is this?

That head angle is perfect,

the face split in bursting giggles

below the crinkled flashing eyes,

so the tilt is toward him,

that flush-faced youth

with the merry blue eyes

across the room,

and her brown bangs

are cascading over

the alluring pink face

like a spring stream

in carefully choreographed turmoil,

a high-stepping dance of life

with no foot movements yet,

only the suggestions.

Oh, he sees, he sees,

those blue eyes were quick

to focus on the suggestions,

but she has turned back

to look the other way,

so coy?

So subtle?

Or, was not the tilt for him?

What’s this?

He looks back again

as she laughs again,

loudly but sweetly

in a surprisingly measured tempo,

a living poem in song,

the bright green ribbon

on the back of her hair

bouncing up and down,

calling hypnotically to him,

notice me, oh notice me.

And notice, he does,

staring until the half-smile,

twists his lips

at her giggles,

but her tilt

isn’t returned just yet,

and she surely wouldn’t turn

to see him from that chair?

The red-haired friend bends

to her purse, but no,

she couldn’t have looked at him?

But she flashes a smile

at green ribbon

above the giggles,

and the giggler

grabs a brush

to lift her hair

above flushed neck,

and they become hilarious

once more, full pink lips

spread in fountains of mirth.

But, oh my,

he looks away,

and he talks to his own friend,

studiously moving

his big long hands

in serious conversation.

Then, as she lays down her brush,

he looks back once again,

then away,

then back as she lays

chin on palm,

and listens to her redhead.

But suddenly, so suddenly,

yet so briefly,

they turn toward each other

for that small moment

when their eyes lock

across the room of other people.

She turns quickly away,

but he pauses,

shot through the heart,

nature calling him to take aim

without letting him know

they both were prey.

Where was the cue?

Do they both have eyes

in the backs of their heads?

How did they move so fast,

he and his friend,

big elbows flopping

across the room

like carp on a string

drawn to the fish fry,

so awkward yet so smooth?

See him pretend to talk

to the redhead

until his friend moves

to steal red’s attention.

Then he turns

to green ribbon

above the giggles,

red-rushing with heat,

his broad face,

so intense his longing,

and she smiles briefly,

yes, so briefly

whether with the wile

of a vixen at successful hunt

or the innocence of a lamb

at first nursing of life,

we may not know?

Ah, yes,

all we know

is the pleasure of seeing

a game well-done.

Flirtation is such a great

spectator sport.   

Copyright 2008, Jerry W. Engler