The Red Balloon

I sat in the perfect seat on the bus. The Bosphorus was directly in front of me, the full and hazy moon shone just off to the left. It’s best to ride the bus at night, when ugly buildings are obscured by darkness and points of light reflect off the water.

An elderly lady got on the bus at Beşiktaş. A young man kindly gave her his seat just next to the door before she would have ricocheted from one side of the bus to the other as the driver accelerated. She was short and round. She wore the usual nondescript clothing, but the scarf lightly wrapped around hair was playfully patterned. I have never seen a face so wrinkled, like a topographical map of a mountainous region. At one time, she must have had the most sparkling, twinkling, clear blue eyes, but now they looked as if they were coated with a thin film of melted Vaseline. In one hand, she held a bright red, promotional balloon on a white stick. She was very pleased about something, maybe the lights on the Bosphorus, maybe with some secret thought, maybe with the balloon. Whatever the reason, she smiled continuously and spoke animatedly to the driver. I stared at her, forgetting that it’s rude, and smiled myself.

As she got off the bus, I imagined her skipping down the sidewalk.