A Somali Christian Woman

I smiled, and thanked Ken. The old Jamaican man smiled, and told me us brothers got to stick together. He rubbed my shoulder and told me to get my Black ass home. I got up, yawned and stretched, then headed for the bank's main room. This I did just as Adam, a stocky middle-aged White man, and his co-worker Stacy, a mousy thirty-something red-headed White lady, walked in. I wish them a good morning. As usual they didn't reply to my greeting. Typical White people in Canada. That's how they are, man. For real. Date them? Never. Let the likes of Tiger Woods and Halle Berry have at them. Stacy shot me a dour look, and Adam flashed me a fake smile. He asked me if everything was alright and I nodded. I then took out my cell phone, called the security company to tell them to sign me out, then I went home. I had to get some rest before my date with Zainab, my Somali goddess. I shuffled to the bus stop, catching the eastbound ninety five bus at Rideau Center. I'm going home. It's morning.