Only in New York

There's a screech, a scream, then silent panic like a dream.

A cyclist cuts across an intersection, skipping a red light. The taxi entering the intersection tries to screech to a halt, but there is no way for it to avoid the collision that follows. No time even to blow the horn. A sound of scrunching metal. The bike disappears under the car. The cyclist flies through the air, his crumpled body falling inert a few feet away.

For a moment, the world freezes. Time staggers in milliseconds. The taxi driver sits frozen behind the wheel.

Then he notices that the cyclist is stirring (and therefore not dead), and immediately leans out the window and starts yelling at the cyclist.

Not the concerned "are you okay?!" kind of questionning, oh no. The "What-the-F-are-you-doing-its-my-right-of-way!" kind of berating. The type of invective that one might, for instance, anywhere other than New York, choose NOT to give someone they had almost killed.

The taxi driver continues his face-reddening, fist-shaking tirade. The cyclist gets up slowly, shakily. Realizes that he is, after all, still alive. Mounts his cycle, and continues on his way, without so much as an acknowledgement of the surrounding scene. The crowd, visibly released from its frozen poise, heaves a sigh of collective relief. A moment's pause, out of respect for the horror which could easily have been, and then everyone continues on their way.

A brief pause, a gasp of shock, a glance to make sure everyone's still alive, and the world continues on, without so much as missing a step.