Bloor Line, legs crossed and leaning.

Black woman, late teens, wearing a brown coat and brown knit cap, hood high against her neck, tied in place with a long scarf.

Vanity Fair, William Thackeray (Premier Classics)

Page 175:

How many a thing had she said, and got no echo from him. How many suspicions of selfishness and indifference had she to ecounter and obstinately overcome?

Had it been a play the lights would come up now, she thought. Two figures stand facing each other on the stage, hands by their sides, shoulders forward, hips locked, legs braced. Anger. Frustration. Passion. The audience doesn't know. A minute or two and their resolve remains even as their bodies begin to sway. Finally, they push off their heels, bounding toward one another, stopping shoulder to shoulder, clasping an arm about the other's waist until they are a figure eight. This might be the first time the audience notices that they aren't wearing shoes, that they're both in tank tops and loose fitting pants. They twist slowly, circling at the waist, once, twice, and then she's on his back, a leg slung over to slide on top, easy, effortless. She holds her forearm against his throat, her back arched, her other arm pumped high like she's mastered the bull. He bucks, turning to catch her before she hits the ground, propelling her through his legs back across the stage to where she first stood. She stands. He faces her. Their hands are by their sides, shoulders forward, hips locked, legs braced. The door bell rings. They straighten, wipe their laps and approach one another, tending stray hairs, lopsided straps, a sweaty brow, then head to the door where another couple stands with the offer of a casserole.