**Providence…**
**Emily**
Late May, and summer heat had settled in for the second week straight. Emily boarded the bus and instantly regretted it. Rush hour was packed—shoulder to shoulder, stifling. The crowd pressed in from all sides, her dress clinging to her damp skin. Someone shoved her hard in the back.
“Move down, will you? Everyone’s got somewhere to be. People like you ought to walk, taking up all this space,” grumbled an elderly woman’s voice behind her.
“Look who’s talking—you’re hardly a featherweight yourself. Shift over!” barked a raspy male voice, the sudden pressure making Emily gasp.
“Oi, you’ll crush me, you brute!” squealed another woman.
The doors hissed shut, and the bus lurched forward. Behind Emily, the woman and the raspy man kept bickering.
“Christ, woman, why so bitter?”
“You shut it. Hard enough to breathe without your stinking breath on top of it,” she shot back.
Emily couldn’t even turn her head—just pressed her nose into someone’s shoulder. No hope of reaching a handrail, either, wedged as she was. The bus jolted, brakes screeching, then accelerated sharply, tossing passengers like pickles in a jar. They only stayed upright because there was no room to fall. A faint breeze slipped through the windows, but at every red light, the squabbles flared up again.
Emily bit her lip, silent, dreaming of fresh air, home, peeling off her damp clothes, a cool shower. Another lurch sent the crowd swaying.
“Oi, driver! Careful! We’re not logs back here!” rasped the man. “Bet you’ve got the AC on up front while we bake…”
The bus slowed for the next stop.
“Don’t let anyone else on—we’ll suffocate! Anyone getting off?” he called.
“Me! Let me out!” Emily shouted, desperation cutting through.
The doors wheezed open, releasing the woman, the man, then finally Emily. A sharp elbow jabbed her shoulder as the woman hissed, “Cow! One stop, and you crammed in here.”
Emily had no time to retort. The bus swallowed the woman and rumbled away. Too shaken to wait for another, Emily walked home, swallowing tears. That vile voice echoed: *Cow.*
They’d called her that since school—*cow, hippo, mammoth*. She should’ve been used to it. But how was it her fault she was big? Doctors found nothing wrong.
“Mum, why did you have me? Who’d want someone this fat?” she’d sobbed after school. “Should’ve married someone thin. Then I’d be slim like you.”
“You’re not fat, love. Just sturdy. Heart wants what it wants. Your dad was broad, handsome—women noticed. You take after him. Wait till you fall for someone yourself,” Mum scolded.
“I won’t. Who’d love me like this?”
“Someone will. Not all men want twigs. Plenty of thin girls plump up after babies,” Mum soothed.
Emily tried diets, starved herself, but her body rebelled. Even jogging drew sneers:
“Why’s the pavement so slippery? Oh—fat’s leaking,” a lad laughed to his girlfriend, jogging past.
She quit. Gave up on mirrors, diets, everything.
Then Mum fell ill. Even grief didn’t slim her. Not even after the funeral, when she barely ate.
Now thirty-three, no love, no family in sight. *No more buses*, she decided. *I’ll walk.*
But the next day, a near-empty bus pulled up. Rare luck. She boarded, fumbling for her Oyster card, when the bus jerked forward. No time to grab a rail—she stumbled backward. *I’ll fall, crack my skull—*
***
**Oliver**
That morning, Oliver turned the key. Nothing. Five minutes of futile cranking. Called a tow, left the car with his mate at the garage.
A taxi got him to work late. No rush home—no one waiting. He considered walking, but a half-empty bus arrived. When was the last time he’d taken one? The 24 went straight to the garage—might as well check on the car.
Later, he’d call it fate. Providence. The car breaking, him boarding that bus, heading not home but to the garage—though a call would’ve sufficed. But it happened, and his life changed.
He’d married Charlotte—slim, stunning, the kind men stared at. Pride swelled when they did, envy sharp in their eyes. She was flawless. And just as cold. Reality hit fast. Charlotte loved only herself, her sculpted figure.
New diets obsessed her. Oliver thought she could use a few pounds—soft curves, warmth. She ate rabbit food. Soon, he begged for meat.
“Stop whinging. Men should watch their weight too. You get lunch at work—that’s enough junk. Supper’s light. Get fat, and I’ll leave,” she said.
He dreamt of steak, woke groaning. When starving, he visited Mum, who fed him to bursting. “Found yourself a pretty face who can’t cook. She’ll starve you to death.”
“And what’ll she feed the kids? Grass? She’s too frail to carry one. Should’ve picked a proper woman—one who bakes.”
Oliver didn’t mind pies or roast dinners, but he loved Charlotte. Full, he’d return home to her silent treatment—treason, she called it. Survival meant learning to cook.
Kids? She scoffed.
“I worked too hard for this body. Ruin it with a baby? You’d leave me after. Want kids? Find some broodmare.”
Mum was right. What kind of marriage was this? Separate meals, no family. He loved the Charlotte he’d wed—sweet, pliant. Not this ice statue. Better alone than starving beside beauty. They divorced quietly.
Lonely nights, he dreamed of a warm home, a wife who cooked, kids. Friends over Sundays, admiring her baking. Christmas at Gran’s, pantomimes with the children.
He eyed women now, but none stirred him. Skinny beauties? Not anymore.
Then *she* boarded. Floral dress, digging for her Oyster card—when the bus lurched. She flew backward. Oliver caught her, pulling her close. Soft warmth, shampoo scent—his dream woman, right there. His heart hammered.
A breathless moment, pressed together. Then she stepped back, turned—and he drowned in her eyes.
“Sorry—I didn’t grab the rail in time. Did I hurt you?”
“Are *you* alright?” he managed.
“No, thanks to you.”
They marveled at his timing, the near-disaster averted. Then she was gone, stepping off before he thought to follow. He watched her vanish into the crowd.
All evening, he remembered her. Not thin, not fat—*right*. Those eyes. No way she starved herself. And why should she? He’d never let her. But how to find her?
Next day, the garage called: car ready. No joy. Back to driving, no more bus encounters.
Wait—he knew her stop. After work, he parked nearby, watching. Days passed. Then—there. Different dress, same her. His heart leapt.
“Hello. Remember me? Caught you on the bus.”
She blinked, then smiled. “Oh! I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“Neither could I. You bowled me over—literally. I’ve waited here every day. What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“Oliver. Let me drive you.”
“Where? I live just there.” She nodded to a block of flats.
“Damn,” he muttered. Desperate, he blurted, “Let me take you to work tomorrow. Better than that bus.”
She eyed him. “Why? I’m a cow. What could you want?”
His chest ached. “When you fell into my arms, I knew—I’d been waiting for you.”
Slowly, she trusted him. Married him. Happiness thinned her where diets failed. They say nothing beautifies like love. True enough.
