Fate…
Lydia
Late May, and summer heat had settled in for the past fortnight. Lydia boarded the bus and instantly regretted it. Rush hour was packed, hot, and stifling. She was squeezed from all sides, her dress clinging to her damp skin. Someone jabbed her sharply in the back.
“Move forward, love—everyone’s got places to be. Some oughta just walk, taking up all this space,” grumbled an older woman’s voice behind her.
“Speak for yourself, not exactly a twig, are ya? Shift over!” croaked a hoarse man’s voice, shoving Lydia so hard she gasped for air.
“Oof, nearly crushed me, you brute,” whined another woman behind her.
The bus doors hissed shut, and they lurched away from the stop. Behind Lydia, the woman and the hoarse man kept elbowing and snapping.
“What’s your problem, eh?”
“Shut it. Hard enough to breathe without your boozy breath stinking up the place,” the woman shot back.
Lydia couldn’t even turn her head—just pressed her nose into someone’s shoulder. No hope of reaching a handrail either, wedged in too tight. The bus jerked forward, brakes slamming, passengers swaying like pickles in a jar. Only the crush of bodies kept anyone upright. The open windows offered a whisper of air, but at every red light, the squabbling flared up again.
Lydia bit her lip, dreaming of escape—fresh air, home, peeling off her damp clothes, a cool shower. Another jolt sent the crowd swaying.
“Oi, driver! Careful, yeah? We’re not sacks of spuds!” the hoarse man yelled. “Bet you’ve got the AC on up there while we roast back here…”
The bus slowed for the next stop.
“Don’t let anyone else on—we’re packed like sardines! Anyone getting off?”
“Me! Let me out!” Lydia cried, desperate to flee the heat and the griping.
The doors wheezed open, releasing the woman and the hoarse man first, then Lydia. As she stepped out, the woman shoved her hard in the shoulder.
“Bloody cow! One stop and you had to cram in here.”
Lydia didn’t answer. The woman vanished into the crowd, the bus doors snapping shut. Too upset to wait for another, Lydia walked home, swallowing tears. That cruel voice echoed in her ears: *Cow.*
She’d been called that since school—*cow, hippo, mammoth*. Should’ve been used to it, but it still stung. Was it her fault she was big-boned? Doctors found nothing wrong with her.
“Mum, why’d you have me? Who’d want a fat lump like me?” she’d sob after school. “Should’ve married some skinny bloke, then I’d be slim like you. Now I’m stuck like this.”
“You’re not fat, love—you’re sturdy. Hearts don’t pick by size. Your dad was broad too, handsome as they come. You take after him. We’ll see who you end up with,” Mum would huff.
“I won’t end up with anyone. Who’d love this?”
“Someone will. Not all men want waifs. Plump’s plenty pretty—and mark my words, half those slim girls’ll fill out after babies,” Mum insisted.
Lydia tried diets, starving herself, but her body rebelled. Even jogging brought mockery—girls giggling, lads sneering, *”Careful, love, you’ll melt the pavement.”* She quit running, gave up on diets, avoided mirrors.
Then Mum fell ill. Even grief didn’t slim Lydia. Not after the funeral, though she barely ate for days.
Now thirty-three, no love, no family in sight. *No more buses*, she decided. *I’ll walk.*
But next day, a near-empty bus pulled up. Luck, for once. She boarded, swiped her Oyster card—then the bus jerked forward. Lydia stumbled, thrown backward. *I’m gonna fall, crack my skull…*
***
Oliver
That morning, Oliver turned the key—nothing. Five minutes of futile cranking later, he called a tow to his mate’s garage. A taxi got him to work late. No hurry home, though—no one waited. He decided to walk… but a half-empty bus arrived. The 24, heading straight to the garage. Why not?
Later, he’d call it fate—the car failing, the bus ride, the detour to the garage instead of home. All of it led to *her*.
He’d married a stunner, Isabelle—sleek, flawless, cold as marble. Proud at first, preening at envious glances. But Isabelle loved only herself, her *body*, obsessing over diets, nibbling lettuce. Oliver dreamed of roast beef, groaned in his sleep.
“Stop whinging. Men should watch their weight too,” she’d say. “Lunch at work’s enough junk. Supper’s light. Get fat, and I’m gone.”
He sneaked meals at Mum’s. “Married a porcelain doll who’ll starve you,” she grumbled. “Find a proper lass who’ll bake pies and stews.”
Isabelle refused kids—*”Ruin my figure? You’d leave me after. Go breed with someone else.”*
Mum was right. What marriage was this? Better alone than hungry beside a statue. They split amiably.
Lonely nights, he dreamed of a warm home, kids, Sunday roasts. Eyed girls, but none stirred him—especially not stick-thin posers.
Then *she* boarded—curvy, flushed, floral dress. Swiped her card, bus lurched, and she flew backward. Oliver caught her, her warmth, her shampoo-scented hair sending his heart wild.
For a breath, they clung. Then she pulled back, met his gaze—and he was lost.
“Sorry, I—the bus—did I crush you?”
“Are you hurt?” he managed.
“No, thanks to you.”
They babbled about luck, near-disasters. Then she was gone.
He kicked himself for not following. Spent the night remembering her—soft, real, *alive*. Not some diet-obsessed ice queen.
Next day, the garage called: *Car’s ready.* No joy. No more bus rides, no chance to find her.
Wait—he knew her stop. After work, he parked there, watching. Days later, *there* she was. Different dress, same eyes. Heart pounding, he approached.
“Hi. Remember me? The bus…”
She blinked, then smiled. “Oh! You saved me. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“Me neither,” he admitted. “You—I just… What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“Oliver. Let me drive you?”
“Where? My flat’s just there.” She pointed.
“Damn,” he muttered, scrambling. “Let me take you to work tomorrow. Skip the bus crush?”
She eyed him. “Why? I’m a heifer. What d’you want with me?”
“*What?* When you fell into my arms, I—I knew I’d been waiting for you.”
She didn’t believe him at first. Convinced no one could love her. But she fell. They married.
Lydia glowed. Diets never slimmed her, but happiness did. Funny, that—how love smooths edges, softens scars. The right eyes see only what matters.
