If you’re going to take the bus because your ancient car breaks down in a billow of steam and despair, remember the universe isn’t done yet. Ride the bus home and witness fate dealing you a smellier card, squeezed into a leather corset.

So it was yesterday afternoon. I boarded the bus, its AC set to Meat Locker, as my small car had sent another signal that it was done serving my selfish, silly human needs, like convenient, independent transportation.

On the long way with many stops back home, we picked up an intriguing pair of travelers. First to board was a largish woman wearing a smallish leather dominatrix corset and mom jeans, her dog and man friend in tow. A small disclaimer: I have no problem with overweight people or leather corsets. The issue comes with their coupling. Let’s all dress appropriately for the situation, shall we? Anyway. When she boards, she brings a familiar pungency associated with the distrust of underarm deodorant. With all the skin spilling over the tops of her jeans and oozing from the leather (or a facsimile thereof) bust opening, who can blame the constricted body for reeking in protest?

A man sitting in front of me, wearing headphones and disdain, stood and fled to the back of the bus, minimizing his exposure to the fumes. Mistaking his self-preservation for chivalry, the plus-sized dominatrix took his seat, thus giving my sniff receptors greater access to the aroma of her essence. A kindness to be sure.

And so we rode for the next ten stop-and-go miles. She readjusting her corset so as not to expose the sweaty bosom sisters, and me with finger under nose, mouth open, trying to keep from both laughing and dying.

Perhaps this is why the bus’s AC was set to Hanging Sides of Beef. In the great scheme of things, we’re all just creatures along for the ride. Some of us wear leather corsets.