Ten Minutes
The sharp morning light streamed through the bus window, which—judging by the brown streaks—had not been washed in ages. The vehicle rattled along Rákóczi Road, edging deeper and deeper into downtown Budapest. On one side of Edda, schoolchildren crowded together, their bags slung carelessly over their shoulders; in front of them, an elderly man grumbled under his mustache, and a little further away, a woman in a skirt rested her laptop bag on her knees. Edda turned up the volume on her phone and did what most people do: she concentrated hard so she wouldn't have to look at others—especially the man in paint-stained pants standing to her right. But even the puppies playing on the screen couldn't distract her from the smell of sweat coming from her neighbor. It stung her nose. She froze her face into an expressionless mask so as not to betray her disgust.
Typical, she looked at her watch as her concern swept away her impending scowl. I wanted to leave earlier, just ten minutes earlier, she thought with a heavy sigh, but public transportation in Budapest is brilliant. It should be able to make up ten minutes, right?
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she imagined her boss's litany of reproaches for being late when the bus suddenly came to a halt. Struggling to keep her balance, she raised her head. She reached for the handrail and grabbed it just in time before her foot could start moving toward the painter. Meanwhile, her gaze fell on an elderly woman standing on the other side of the window. With her frail figure, she looked around inquisitively. She wanted to cross the street, but the curb was too high and her walker, packed with bags, wobbled behind her. She grabbed it and started forward, but stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. Pedestrians came and went. A woman stopped next to her for a moment, looking thoughtful, but the old lady just looked her over and continued on her way. Finally, her eyes settled on the right candidate. The lucky one looked like a henchman from a mafia story: tall, bald, wearing sunglasses. His leather jacket stretched tight over his bulging muscles. Seeing the old lady, he took off his sunglasses and, disregarding the expected behavior, smiled and extended his arm to her.
Books and covers, Edda noted to herself, as sparks flew from the edge of her field of vision. She rubbed her eyes behind her thick-rimmed glasses, but the lights continued to flicker. This wasn't the first time.
Just my nerves, she reassured herself as she glanced at her phone, which showed that it was exactly nine o'clock. I'm late, she thought, pressing her lips together as the image of the bus darkened before her eyes and a lit-up villa appeared. The smell of salt wafted toward her on the wind, and somewhere a seagull screeched. She felt as if she were floating high up with them. Edda's heart pounded in her chest and she blinked rapidly as she looked down at her darkened phone screen. Her hand trembled on the stop button as the bus continued to rattle along, leaving the Uránia behind. Just my nerves!