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With a roar of engines, a whoosh and clank of gears, the bus passed the black woman by. It was cold out, the wind howling like a wraith around his ears, making Jason disappointed at the bus driver's actions - though not surprised. For a moment her arm remained raised like some intricately carved statue placed at the bus stop in homage to black pride, the strength of black women. Then slowly, steadily, as the meaning behind the action began to sink in, she started to falter. Her arm fell limply to her side as if broken. She remembered where she was, turning to the bus shelter where Jason was stood, staring at the Countdown that proclaimed the next was approximately thirteen minutes away. Her eyes were wide in disbelief. Her outrage creased her face. No one else witnessed what had occurred.
"Did you see that? Did you see that?" she almost squealed, her emotions high.
"Yeah, I saw. Don't worry I saw," he replied.
She opened her mouth to say more, then she thought about that. For the black man, it was something like watching a cloud pass in front of the sun. For a moment, the atmosphere was dark, cold as the windy day. Then she smiled and the sun was out again.
"Oh," she said in reply. "That's all right then."
He took her hand and she let him. They stood that way until the next bus arrived.
Courttia Newland - 241 words, London
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