The Unlikely Meeting
**Polly**
Late May, and summer’s heat had settled in for weeks. Polly stepped onto the bus and immediately regretted it. Rush hour meant cramped space, sticky air, and too many bodies pressed together. Her dress clung to her damp skin as someone jabbed her sharply in the back.
“Move down, will you? Some of us have places to be,” snapped an older woman behind her.
“You’re not exactly slim yourself. Scoot over!” growled a hoarse-voiced man, shoving Polly so hard she gasped.
“Ouch! You’ll crush me, you brute!” whimpered another woman.
With a metallic clatter, the doors slammed shut, and the bus lurched forward. Behind Polly, the bickering continued.
“Mum, why d’you have to be so nasty?”
“Shut it. It’s bad enough we can barely breathe without you reeking of last night’s beer!”
Polly couldn’t see who was speaking—her face was practically buried in someone’s shoulder, arms pinned uselessly at her sides. The bus jerked to a halt, throwing passengers against one another like tinned sardines. The occasional breeze through open windows offered brief relief, but at every red light, the sweltering tension returned.
Polly bit her lip, tuning out the grumbles. She just wanted fresh air, home, and a cool shower. The bus jolted again.
“Oi, driver! Careful! We’re not a load of firewood back here!” the hoarse man shouted. “Bet you’ve got the AC on up front while we roast!”
Slowing for the next stop, the bus creaked.
“Don’t let anyone else on! We’ll suffocate!” the man yelled. “Anyone getting off?”
“Me! Let me out!” Polly cried, desperate to escape.
The doors wheezed open, releasing the bickering pair first, then Polly. As she stumbled free, the woman jabbed her elbow into Polly’s shoulder.
“Bloody cow! Just one stop and you had to squeeze in.”
Before Polly could retort, the bus swallowed the woman and rumbled away. Polly walked the rest of the way, tears stinging. That word—*cow*—echoed in her ears, just like school.
“Mum, why’d you have me like this? Who’d ever want a fat lump like me?” she’d sobbed as a teen.
“You’re not fat, love. You’re sturdy. Like your dad—handsome, broad-shouldered. Men’ll notice you,” her mum had insisted.
“None ever do,” Polly sniffled.
Dieting, running—nothing stuck. Comments followed her: “Blimey, pavement’s slippery—oh, wait, that’s just *her*,” some bloke had sneered. Eventually, she gave up.
At thirty-three, love seemed a fairy tale. “No more buses,” she vowed.
Yet the next day, a near-empty bus pulled up. Polly boarded, swiping her travel card—but the bus jerked forward. She stumbled backward, certain she’d crack her skull—
—
**Leo**
That morning, Leo’s car wouldn’t start. After futile attempts, he called a tow. Late for work, he took a taxi. With no one waiting at home, he decided to walk—but spotting a half-empty bus, he hopped on. The Number 24 went to the garage; he could check on his car.
Later, he’d call it fate.
He’d married Elena—willowy, flawless—pride puffing his chest at envious stares. But her beauty was ice. Obsessed with diets, she served salads, sneered at meat. “Men should watch their weight too,” she’d say. Starving, Leo sneaked meals at his mum’s.
“She’ll feed you grass forever. Find a proper wife, one who bakes!” Mum scolded.
Elena refused children. “Ruin *this* body? If you want kids, find some breeder.”
The divorce was quiet. Lonely nights, Leo dreamed of a warm home, kids, Sunday roasts. He eyed women—but none stirred him.
Then, on the bus, *she* stumbled into his arms.
Polly—soft, warm, smelling of vanilla. “You all right?” he asked, heart hammering.
“Thanks to you,” she laughed.
They chatted until her stop. Leo, kicking himself, watched her vanish into the crowd.
The next day, he parked near her stop. When she appeared, he called out. “Remember me?”
Polly’s eyes widened. “Leo!”
“Let me drive you tomorrow. No more stuffy buses.”
She hesitated. “Why? I’m just a… a *cow*.”
Leo flushed. “When you fell into me, I… I *knew*.”
Slowly, Polly trusted him. Love bloomed—she even shed a few pounds, glowing with happiness.
And Leo? He finally had his Sunday roasts, her laughter filling the house.
Moral? The right love finds you—often where you least expect it.
