A sharp swerve. Too sharp. We're going to hit something. Where are we? We're stopped. We didn't hit anything. Weird.
“He went through a red light.” We're in the oncoming traffic lane but there's nothing facing us. Why not? Jesus, it's just luck. What the fuck was that about? And how on earth did the driver miss everything?
The bus starts moving again, trying to get back into the traffic. A taxi tries to get ahead of us. Cheeky bastard. Oh, he's letting us go now. There's the cyclist. He looks absurdly sanguine—he could have been hospitalised or worse and he's just there, taking his helmet off. Maybe a bit slower than he might usually. Who knows.
Strange. I felt instinctively, viscerally, that we were going to hit something, but there was nothing emotional. Curiosity if anything. Strange.
Damn, where was I on this page? I always end up rereading a good chunk of a paragraph before I realise I've read it before. Oh well. It's nearly my stop anyway, and we seem to be moving along normally again now.
“Well done, driver. Are you alright?” I just get off, but after a pause.