Fate…
Cynthia
Late May, and summer heat had settled in for the second week. Cynthia boarded the bus and instantly regretted it. Rush hour meant crowds, stuffy air, and bodies pressing from every side. Her dress clung to her damp skin. Someone jabbed her sharply in the back.
“Move forward—we all need to get somewhere. Some people ought to walk if they take up this much space,” muttered an older woman behind her.
“Give us a break—you’re no featherweight yourself!” growled a raspy male voice as the crush behind Cynthia knocked the breath from her lungs.
“Ow, you brute—you’re squashing me!” squeaked another woman.
The doors slammed shut, and the bus lurched forward. Behind Cynthia, the argument continued.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist, love?”
“Shut it. It’s hard enough to breathe without your boozy breath stinking up the place,” the woman shot back.
Cynthia couldn’t see who was speaking—she couldn’t even turn her head without burying her nose in someone’s shoulder. She couldn’t reach the handrails, either, wedged as she was between strangers.
The bus jerked forward, brakes screeching, then accelerated sharply. Passengers swayed like pickles in a jar, staying upright only because there was no room to fall. The open windows provided fleeting relief—until the next red light, when the jostling and bickering flared again.
Cynthia bit her lip, silent, dreaming of home, fresh air, peeling off her damp clothes, and stepping under a cool shower. Another lurch sent passengers stumbling.
“Oi, driver—careful! We’re not sacks of potatoes!” shouted the raspy man. “Bet you’ve got the fan blasting up front while we roast back here…”
The bus slowed for the next stop.
“Drive on—no one else can squeeze in! We’ll crush each other!” the man bellowed. “Anyone getting off?”
“Me! Let me out!” Cynthia cried, desperate to escape the heat and elbows.
The doors creaked open, releasing first the arguing pair, then Cynthia. As she stepped off, the woman jabbed her shoulder.
“Fat cow! Couldn’t walk one stop?”
Cynthia had no chance to retort. The woman vanished into the crowd, the doors hissed shut, and the bus rolled away. Too shaken to wait for another, Cynthia walked home, swallowing angry tears. That cruel voice still rang in her ears: “Fat cow!”
“Cow,” “hippo,” “mammoth”—schoolyard taunts she’d never outgrown. Doctors found nothing wrong with her—just her natural build.
“Mum, why did you have me? Who’d want someone this fat?” she’d sobbed as a girl. “You should’ve married someone slim. Then I’d be like you.”
“You’re not fat, love—you’re sturdy. Can’t help who you fall for. Your dad was broad-shouldered, handsome. Takes after him, you do. Wait till you meet your match,” her mother chided.
“I won’t. No one would love me like this,” Cynthia sniffed.
“You’ll see. Not all men want waifs. Plenty of women plump up after babies, anyway,” Mum insisted.
Diets, hunger, jogging—nothing stuck. Hunger always won. Slim girls smirked as she puffed past.
“Thought the pavement was slippery—turns out it’s just her sweating,” a lad sneered once.
Cynthia quit trying. She avoided mirrors.
Then Mum fell ill. Even grief didn’t slim her. At thirty-three, love and family still seemed impossible. “No more buses,” she vowed. “I’ll walk.”
Yet the next day, an empty bus pulled up. She boarded, swiped her Oyster card—then the bus jerked forward. Cynthia stumbled backward, certain she’d crack her skull—
***
James
That morning, James turned the key—nothing. Five minutes of futile cranking later, he called a tow truck.
Late for work, he took a taxi. Home could wait—no one was waiting—so he walked. Then a half-empty bus appeared. When had he last ridden one? The 24 went straight to the garage—might as well check on his car.
Later, he’d call it fate. His car breaking down, boarding that bus, heading toward the garage instead of home—all conspiring to change his life.
He’d married Rebecca, a stunner, head over heels. Pride swelled when men gaped at her, envy flashing at him. She was flawless—and just as cold. Reality struck fast. Rebecca loved only herself, her sculpted frame.
Her world was diets, even when bones showed. James wished she’d soften. Meals were salads—greens, no dressing.
“Man can’t live on rabbit food,” he begged once.
“Stop whining. You get lunch at work. Supper’s light. Get fat, and I’m gone,” she said.
He dreamed of roast beef, waking hungry. When desperate, he visited Mum, who fed him properly.
“Found yourself a pretty face who’ll starve you. Get a proper wife—one who cooks!” Mum scolded.
James loved Rebecca—but survival meant learning to cook.
Kids? Rebecca refused.
“Ruined my body? You’d leave me fat. Go breed with someone else.”
Mum was right. What marriage was this? He missed the Rebecca he’d wed—sweet, warm. This stranger? Unlovable. Better alone than starving beside a mannequin. They divorced amicably.
Lonely nights, James dreamed of family—a cosy wife, kids, Sunday roasts. Friends praising her pies.
At work, he eyed women—none stirred him. Skinny beauties? No longer his type.
On the bus, a woman in a floral dress swiped her card—then the bus lurched. She flew backward—straight into James’s arms.
In that moment, he knew: He’d dreamed of this—soft warmth, the weight against him, floral shampoo. His heart hammered.
They stood entwined briefly before she pulled away. Turning, she met his gaze—and he was lost.
“Sorry—I didn’t grab the rail. Did I squash you?”
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No—thanks to you.”
They chatted—how lucky he’d been there, how quick he’d reacted—then she exited.
James kicked himself for not following. He watched her vanish into the crowd.
All evening, he recalled her—curvy, lovely. Those eyes! She’d never starve herself—nor should she. But where to find her?
When the garage called next day, he scowled. Driving meant no more bus encounters.
Wait—he knew her stop. After work, he parked nearby, watching passengers. Then—there she was. Different dress, same woman. His heart leapt.
“Hello. Remember me? Caught you on the bus.”
She blinked, then smiled.
“Thank you. I was shaken all night.”
“Me too,” he admitted. “Not because—well, you bowled me over. I’ve waited here days. What’s your name?”
“Cynthia.”
“James. Let me drive you.”
“Where? That’s my building.” She pointed nearby.
“Shame,” he mumbled, scrambling. “Let me take you to work tomorrow. Better than the bus.”
She eyed him.
“Don’t lie. I’m a cow. What d’you want with me?”
“Did I offend you? When you fell into my arms, I… I think I’ve been looking for you forever.”
Cynthia was wary at first—certain no one could love her. Then she fell too. They married.
Happiness suited her. Diets failed, but joy slimmed her slightly. Love, they say, is the best beautifier.
