Weekend subway. Construction — attraction — sparks conversation.

He doth bestride the narrow aisle a colossus. Pin-striped. Pointy-toed. Erect arm grasping the pole.

She drapes the door. Flowing hair. Flowing blouse. Travel weary. At ease. Rolling bag between her and him.

Topics rise and fall under wheel on rail: her job, his stop, her yoga, his workout.

My wife and I try not to try to listen.

Yet the banal, unlikely choreography grips us like watching two astronauts brush their teeth in space.

“I could kick my leg as high as your head one or two times with no problem. After the third or fourth time, I might pull a hamstring or something.”