Belgian Orange Chocolate

I was on my way to visit an acquaintance at his office downtown. I decided to get on a bus, as the underground train station was some distance from where I was heading. As I trudged forwards through the bus, my eyes were enchanted, caught mercilessly, by the beauty of ginger tresses, overflowing majestically around the most delicately beauteous face I’d ever laid my eyes on. She seemed to be young — most certainly a little younger than me — so I didn’t suppose her to be any older.

The traffic was horrendous. It was as if the whole city was on the roads, thronging to see a football match between the city’s foremost football teams. But there was no match that day, oh no, there was only me and the little, lovely girl.

She was sat on the rear-facing seat, facing the empty area on buses that are supposedly designated for wheelchair people. But my attraction was of such an irresistible ilk, it was impossible not to resist standing there right before her majestic beauty, in the corner right in front of her seat and beside the left side of the bus, where I could blithely pretend to be watching the onslaught of cars outside while taking a glance at her every now and then. But no, I was not standing there out of my own volition, I was enchanted, under her ruthless spell, unable to move anywhere. Her ginger hair was just too flamboyant, too vivid, too mesmerizing.

Thanks to the glut of cars causing indescribable traffic, the bus moved at a pace so lethargic it would’ve instilled jealousy into even the most slothful and frailest of snails. This was not helped by the fact that the more time passed with me on the bus, the more the desire in me swelled to intolerable proportions. After about 50 minutes or so, we arrived in Şişli. No doubt she had noticed I’d been taking the pleasure out of my intermittent glances at her gorgeous complexion every couple of minutes or so, as I could with the corner of my eye notice she was requiting the favour with occasional glances of her own, though I wasn’t sure of neither the nature nor intent of such glances.

Suddenly, I noticed she’d put away her phone and grabbed her blue jacket, burying her head into it, as if crying and wishing to hide her lovely countenance from being witnessed in such a vulnerable condition. I felt the urge to ask her what’s wrong — and, in all honesty, I was shamelessly glad, very glad, that fate had given me an excuse, an opportunity, to initiate contact. But I didn’t take the chance. I just looked at her pityingly, sorry for what had befallen her even as I had not the slightest of clues as to what was causing this angel of a girl to become teary-eyed.

A few minutes later, the bus came to a grinding halt at its stop, and half the passengers onboard alighted. But for me, the most important thing was that the woman who had been sat next to this ginger-haired girl had gotten off the bus. That was my chance to sit next to the girl of my wildest dreams. But I vacillated, unable to move my body along to go sit next to her. Such was my hesitation, and it was exorbitantly costly, since as I was still striving to no avail to move my body and sit, another woman came and laid claim to the empty seat next to the girl. I’d lost the battle — the battle against my own insecurities.

But fate decided to give me a second chance. The woman suddenly leapt upwards and sat on a seat somewhere else, as if conjured into movement by Pallas Athena or maybe Aphrodite herself, thus freeing the coveted prized spot for me to force myself into settling onto with no further delay nor deliberation. At last, after enduring an unendurable, gruelling hour on the bus, haunted and taunted by a tormenting temptation of the girl of the fairest cheeks, ginger hair, and endowed breasts; finally, I was sat next to her.

Naturally, I still dithered, squirming in my seat, trying to muster any courage, any sense of manly bravery to speak to her, if not for my own sake, but for her sake, for she seemed to be troubled and I wanted to know what on Godly Earth could be possibly bothering this girl of gorgeous glamour and godlike grace.

It was only two minutes on the clock, but in my mind it felt like two hours, when I’d finally scavenged some courage and lent to the side towards her, and spoke in a whispery, gentle voice in Turkish, and spoke with waddled words:

“Hey, I noticed you were feeling quite sad some minutes ago. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

Her beauteous face took on a look of confusion. She looked at me as if I was speaking an alien language.

“Oh sorry, I don’t speak Turkish,” she then said.

I almost laughed at my own foolishness. Of course this girl was not Turkish.

“Oh I apologise. Where are you from?” I asked, curious.

“I’m from Belgium,” she replied.

“Oh Belgium, wow,” I said, unsure how to respond. “I then posed my initial question, this time, in a language she understands. “I was asking if everything is alright with you. You seemed quite… sad a little while ago. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“Oh yeah, I’m alright,” she nodded, her eyes beginning to well with tears.

“Oh, I see. I felt something was making you sad, you seemed troubled by something, so I just wanted to make sure you’re fine.”

She smiled softly at me.

“So for how long have you been in Istanbul?”

She raised her hand slightly, and gestured to me, “little time only.”

This gave me the impression that she was an exchange student.

A little over a minute later, she began crying and blurting out some words. I couldn’t make out what she was saying and had to ask her to repeat her words twice till I finally learnt what was troubling this adorable human being.

“I was crying… because,” she began, her voice faltering, gasping for breath, “…because, my house is so far and I have to be stuck in traffic like this every day just to get home after class,” she choked out, his lips trembling, breath coming in shallow bursts. Tears ran down her endearing pinkish cheeks, like Holy water streaming down the pink clouds in the heavens shortly after the hour of dawn.

I felt something I wasn’t expecting to feel for this girl, who was arguably and objectively speaking, just a stranger on a bus. I wanted to help her, my heart torn apart as my mind scrambled to think how to best respond in the most sympathetic and compassionate manner possible, not to gain her liking for me, but just to actually help out this human being whom I hadn’t known till an hour earlier.

“Yeah, traffic in Istanbul is crazy. It’s really annoying.”

She nodded her head, her lips bent forwards, and her eyes increasingly reddish, as if trying to match the pinky colour of the cheeks right beneath them.

“Is it like this also in Belgium?” I inquired.

“Oh nooo! Not at all! It’s far better over there. Here it is insane,” she said, her voice beginning to steady a little as she let out a modest chuckle.

I chuckled along.

She looked back out the window, and I, took my gaze off of her as I didn’t know how to continue the conversation.

A few minutes passed, whilst we’re sat next to one another, facing backwards and witnessing the sluggish pace of traffic outside, of which our bus was a part. I then abruptly unzipped my backpack which I hugged as it lay on my lap and took out my notebook and pen. I then tore off a piece of paper from the corner of the page, and wrote down my name and phone number before tucking away my notebook back into my bag, and leant towards her, extending my hand to her, offering that imperfectly torn square-shaped piece of paper.

“Here, you can reach out to me anytime if you need any guidance or help with anything. I know what it’s like to be in a new place, and I’d be glad to help out with anything you might need.”

Her face was steady and sober now, but she waved with her hand, refusing to take my number.

“Thank you, really, but no need.”

I didn’t want to press the matter any further as to not make her feel uncomfortable, so I relented and put the piece of paper back in my backpack.

“Thank you,” she reiterated.

Silence reigned for a little while, one which I was resolved to make the most of. I was casting my gaze outside for the most part, watching the cars outside, but I also could not resist the temptation to take a look at her every now and then. This fallow silence didn’t last long, though, which was probably the result of my mind suddenly lighting up with a realisation: in the hypnotic trance brought on by her godlike pulchritude, I’d forgotten to ask about her name.

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to ask about your name.”

“Kiara,” she said.

“Kiara. What a beautiful name.”

“Thank you,” she smiled back.

I then asked her what would’ve been a very ordinary question, but one which I could’ve never foreseen would return an answer that would shock me to the bone.

“So, what are you studying here?”

She looked at me with such sheer befuddlement as if I were asking the question in Chinese.

“Umm… I’m not sure what it’s called.”

She paused for a moment. It seemed as if she was deliberating over something.

“I mean, is it Engineering or maybe related to the arts, psychology….” I then asked, hoping to help her with finding words for an answer.

“I can’t remember the name of the school.”

I was shaken, dismayed, startled at the reality before me.

“Oh so you’re in high school?!”

“Yes, I am a schoolgirl.”

“Oh I see,” I replied, my eyes cast downwards. I let a few moments of silence slip by and then asked another question, perpetuating the mess further by letting my insatiably curious mind lead me deeper into embarrassment.

“So, how old are you?”

She dawdled and started twiddling with her fingers. Perhaps her fidgeting was the answer, I thought to myself. So I chimed in before she could respond.

“Sorry, that was a stupid question.”

She nodded slightly with lips sealed shut, or so it felt to me.

We stayed silent for some time, me out of sheer embarrassment that I’d blithely given proffered my number to a schoolgirl that was most likely underage; and her, I assumed, likely because she preferred looking out of the window instead of babbling with strangers.

Later on, I leaned towards her slightly, and spoke with a soft voice.

“You know, Kiara, though my father is Turkish, my mum is from a different country. So I’ve had to spend half my life here and the other half in my mother’s country. And I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am today if it weren’t for all those people who helped me throughout all these years. That’s why I wanted to help you, too; because I know the value of having someone there to watch out for you and support you when you need it. So I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to creep you out.“

She smiled a mild yet genuine smile and said, “It’s okay, I understand. Thank you.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Nothing was said after that. Shortly thereafter, as the bus arrived at a stop which was two stops later than where we were during the last bit of conversation, she arose from her seat and insinuated herself between the metal plate guarding our seats and myself, attempting to leave.

“Goodbye, Kiara. Take care.”

“Goodbye.”