**Destiny…**
**Penelope**
Late May, and the summer heat had lingered for weeks. Penelope boarded the bus and instantly regretted it. Rush hour meant crowds, tight spaces, and stifling air. Bodies pressed against her from all sides, her dress clinging to her damp skin. Someone shoved her sharply from behind.
“Move forward! We all need to get somewhere. People like you ought to walk—taking up all this space,” grumbled an elderly woman behind her.
“And you’re no featherweight yourself! Move over!” croaked a gruff man’s voice before another shove stole Penelope’s breath.
“Oof, you’re crushing me, you brute!” squealed a woman behind her.
The doors hissed shut, and the bus lurched forward. Behind Penelope, the woman and the gruff man bickered.
“What’s got you in such a foul mood, mum?”
“Pipe down! It’s hard enough to breathe without your boozy stench,” she shot back.
Penelope couldn’t see them—couldn’t even turn her head without bumping into someone’s shoulder. Grabbing a handrail was impossible; she was wedged too tightly. The bus jerked, passengers swaying like pickles in a jar. Only the crush of bodies kept anyone upright. A faint breeze from the windows offered fleeting relief, but at every red light, shoving and grumbling resumed.
Penelope kept quiet, biting her lip, dreaming of fresh air, home, and a cool shower. The bus jerked again, and the crowd swayed.
“Oi, driver! Careful! We’re not sacks of potatoes!” the gruff man shouted. “Bet you’ve got the air con on up there while we roast!”
The bus slowed for the next stop.
“Don’t let anyone else on! We’ll suffocate! Anyone getting off?” he barked.
“Me! Let me out!” Penelope cried, desperate to escape the stifling heat.
The doors groaned open, releasing first the woman, then the man, and finally Penelope—who earned a final jab to the shoulder.
“Bloody whale! Couldn’t walk one stop?”
The doors snapped shut before Penelope could retort. She walked home, blinking back tears, the woman’s cruel words echoing: *Whale.*
They’d called her that in school too—*whale, hippo, mammoth*. She’d never gotten used to it. Was it her fault she was big-boned? Doctors found nothing wrong.
“Mum, why did you have me? Who’d want someone this fat?” she’d sobbed after school. “You should’ve married someone slim. Then I’d be like you.”
“You’re not fat—you’re sturdy. Love’s not picky. Your dad was fit as a fiddle, had women swooning. You take after him. We’ll see who *you* marry,” Mum huffed.
“I won’t marry. Who’d love me?”
“They will. Not all men want waifs. And mark my words, half those skinny girls will plump up after babies,” Mum reassured.
Diets failed. Running brought sneers: “No wonder the pavement’s slippery—someone’s leaking lard!” Penelope gave up, avoiding mirrors.
Then Mum fell ill. Even grief couldn’t slim her. At thirty-three, love and family seemed a distant dream. *No more buses*, she vowed. *I’ll walk.*
But the next day, an empty bus arrived—a rarity. She boarded, swiping her travel card just as the bus lurched forward. She stumbled backward, certain she’d crack her skull—
***
**Oliver**
That morning, Oliver’s car wouldn’t start. After futile attempts, he called a tow truck, took a taxi to work, and ran late. With no one waiting at home, he decided to walk—until a half-empty bus appeared. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d used public transport. Why not? The 24 went straight to the garage. He boarded.
Later, he’d call it fate—the car failing, him taking that bus, heading not home but to the garage (though a call would’ve sufficed). His life changed that day.
He’d married Evelyn, a stunner, out of wild passion. He’d swelled with pride at men’s envious glances—until he realized Evelyn loved only her reflection. She dieted relentlessly, serving salads while Oliver dreamed of roast beef.
“Quit whining. Men should watch their weight too. You eat junk at work—dinner’s light. Get fat, and I’ll leave you,” she’d say.
He sneaked meals at his mum’s. “Marry a proper woman who bakes pies!” she scolded.
Evelyn refused children: “My body’s art. Ruin it with pregnancy? Find another broodmare.”
Oliver left. Lonely nights fuelled dreams of a warm home, kids, Sunday roasts. He eyed women differently now—avoiding delicate types.
Then *she* boarded—curvy, floral dress, swiping her card as the bus jerked. She stumbled backward, but Oliver caught her. In that moment, he knew: *This is what I wanted—soft, warm, real.*
“Sorry! The bus—did I crush you?” she asked.
“Are you hurt?” he countered.
They stammered relief until her stop came. He froze, watching her vanish.
The next day, he waited by the stop, heart pounding when she appeared.
“Remember me? The bus?”
She smiled. “I couldn’t forget.”
“Oliver.”
“Penelope.”
He panicked, blurting, “Let me drive you tomorrow. Why cram on buses?”
She eyed him. “I’m a cow. What d’you want?”
“You *fit* my arms,” he said. “I’ve searched for you forever.”
Skeptical at first, Penelope fell in love. They married.
Happiness, not diets, softened her edges. As they say: nothing beautifies like being loved.
