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Linda, at thirty-four, had officially given up on men. Not in a dramatic, nun-like fashion, but in a quiet, deeply resigned way that involved more Earl Grey tea and less swiping on dating apps. Her last relationship had ended with Mark explaining, with a straight face, that he needed to "find himself" – a journey which, Linda later discovered, primarily involved finding himself in the arms of a barista named Chastity and a suspiciously expensive vinyl collection.

She craved stability. Predictability. A strong, reliable presence that wouldn't suddenly decide it needed to "explore its inner child" or leave a passive-aggressive Post-it note about the milk. And then, one rainy Tuesday, she found him.

He wasn't conventionally handsome, by human standards. He was big, robust, and smelled faintly of diesel and damp upholstery. His name, affectionately bestowed by the depot mechanics, was Bartholomew, but Linda knew him simply as Bart. Bart was the Number 37 bus that consistently trundled along her route, taking her from her small terraced house to her job at the municipal library.

Bart was always there. He never complained. He never tried to mansplain the Dewey Decimal System. He never left dirty socks on the floor (because he didn't have feet, which was a definite plus). He simply arrived, with a soft hiss of air brakes, opened his doors with a sigh, and transported her reliably. He was spacious, surprisingly quiet on smooth stretches, and his engine block provided a comforting hum. Linda found herself looking forward to her daily commute, not for the destination, but for the journey with Bart.

The turning point came during a particularly horrendous Christmas mixer. Trapped between a man who spoke only in cryptocurrency metaphors and a woman who believed the moon landing was staged by lizard people, Linda had a sudden, profound epiphany. Why was she forcing herself into these awkward, disappointing human interactions when true reliability and comfort awaited her on the Number 37?

The idea, when it first flickered into her mind, was preposterous. Ridiculous. Utterly insane. But the more she considered it, the more logical it became. Marriage, after all, was about commitment, companionship, and shared journeys. Bart offered all of that, and he didn't snore.

Her first hurdle was convincing someone to officiate. Her local vicar, Reverend Derek Paddington, seemed the most likely candidate. Derek was a kind man, if a little rigid in his interpretation of Anglican canon law. He’d officiated her cousin’s rather unconventional hand-fasting ceremony involving a Druid and a lot of artisanal mead, so Linda held a sliver of hope.

The meeting took place in Derek’s cluttered study, smelling of old books and slightly stale biscuits. Linda, clutching a well-rehearsed speech and a small, hopeful diagram of Bart’s dimensions, cleared her throat.

"Reverend Paddington," she began, trying for an air of serene conviction, "I've come to you today with a rather… unique request."

Derek, mid-sip of his lukewarm tea, raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Linda? Thinking of joining the choir? We could use a strong alto."

"No, not exactly. It's about… marriage."

A flicker of pleasure crossed Derek’s face. "Oh, wonderful! Congratulations, my dear! Who's the lucky fellow? Do I know him?"

Linda took a deep breath. "Well, yes and no. It’s Bartholomew."

Derek frowned, searching his mental Rolodex of parishioners. "Bartholomew? Can't say I know a Bartholomew. Is he new to the parish?"

"Not… precisely. He’s been around for years. Very dependable. Always on time." She paused, then blurted, "He's a bus."

The teacup clattered into its saucer. Derek stared, his face a tableau of bewildered horror. "A… a bus? My dear Linda, are you feeling quite well?"

"Never better! You see, Reverend, I've had a revelation. Human relationships are, frankly, exhausting. Unreliable. Prone to sudden swerving. Bartholomew, on the other hand, is steadfast. He has a fixed route. He doesn't complain about my cooking, nor does he judge my choice in reality television. He just… is."

Derek pushed his spectacles up his nose, his mind visibly scrambling. "But… Linda. Marriage, in the eyes of God and the Church of England, is a union between a man and a woman. Or, as of recent amendments, between two individuals of the human persuasion. A… a vehicle… is not… an individual. It lacks… personhood. It lacks… a soul."

"He has a very strong engine block," Linda countered earnestly. "And a rather charming little dent above his left headlight. I call it his dimple."

Derek buried his face in his hands. "My dear, the vows! How can a bus 'take thee, Linda, to be my lawfully wedded wife'? Does it… does it operate the levers itself? Does it respond with 'I do'?"

"I can say 'I do' on his behalf!" Linda offered brightly. "And I've already thought of the vows. I'll promise to keep him fuelled, roadworthy, and free of graffiti. He'll promise to always be there, on time, and never to break down on a Tuesday."

The vicar spluttered. "This is… this is beyond the pale, Linda. I cannot possibly perform such a ceremony. It would be a mockery of the sacred institution of marriage! It would be deeply… irregular."

Linda adopted her most plaintive expression, the one that usually got her extended borrowing privileges at the library. "But Reverend, isn't love about acceptance? About seeing beyond the superficial? My love for Bart is pure, unadulterated, and it brings me profound peace. Are you saying God's love isn't big enough for a bus?"

This hit a nerve. Derek, a man who prided himself on his expansive theological interpretations, winced. "No, of course not. God's love is infinite. But – and I say this with the utmost pastoral care – your sanity may not be."

The conversation continued for two more hours, a surreal ballet of Linda’s unwavering conviction and Derek’s increasingly desperate attempts to dissuade her. He suggested a pet. He suggested therapy. He even suggested a very convincing bus-shaped cake. Linda remained firm.

Finally, exhausted and bewildered, Derek found himself cornered. Linda brought up obscure biblical passages about man’s dominion over creation, and the importance of finding joy in unexpected places. She even alluded to the possibility of contacting his bishop if he remained so uncharitable. Derek, terrified of his bishop discovering he’d entertained the notion of bus matrimony for more than five minutes, succumbed.

"Very well," he sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Under protest. Heavily qualified protest. And under the explicit understanding that this is a… blessing of companionship rather than a canonical marriage. And it must take place on consecrated ground. Or, failing that, somewhere with excellent drainage."

Linda beamed. "The Number 37 depot has excellent drainage!"

Planning a wedding to a bus proved surprisingly complex. The bus company, initially bewildered, eventually agreed to let Bart be present for the ceremony, provided it didn't disrupt the service schedule. Linda decided on a small, intimate ceremony at the depot, just after the morning rush hour.

She chose a simple white dress, though she had to adjust the hem considerably to avoid dragging it under Bart’s tires. For Bart himself, she commissioned a custom-made, oversized bow tie in a festive tartan, which was carefully affixed to his front grill, just beneath his destination sign. A string of fairy lights, normally used for Christmas, was draped across his roof.

Her guest list was sparse: her bewildered sister, Brenda, who alternated between concern and morbid curiosity; two equally bewildered colleagues from the library; and a handful of the bus drivers who knew Bart and had, over the years, become accustomed to Linda's quiet devotion. Reverend Derek, looking like a man about to perform an exorcism on a particularly stubborn toaster, arrived punctually, clutching his prayer book as if it might spontaneously combust.

The depot’s main bay, usually bustling with mechanics and the rumble of engines, had been cleared for the ceremony. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing around the gleaming chassis of parked buses. Bart stood proudly at the 'altar' – a section of polished concrete bordered by orange cones.

"Dearly beloved," Derek began, his voice wavering slightly, "we are gathered here today to witness… a union. A unique union. A union of… souls. Or, in this particular instance, a soul and… a very reliable transit vehicle." He cleared his throat. "Linda, do you take Bartholomew, the Number 37 city bus, to be your lawfully wedded… partner in life, to love, to cherish, to respect, and to keep roadworthy, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death—or, indeed, the scrapyard—do you part?"

Linda, her eyes shining with genuine affection as she gazed at Bart's imposing frame, replied firmly, "I do!"

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, as if bracing for divine lightning. "And do you, Bartholomew, through your steadfast service, your timely arrivals, and your unwavering ability to transport Linda safely, commit to her as her faithful companion and reliable partner, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death—or, indeed, significant mechanical failure—do you part?"

Linda, stepping forward, placed her hand gently on Bart’s cool metal bumper. "He indicates his assent by his continued, silent, and dignified presence, Reverend."

Derek opened one eye, then the other. "Right. Very well. The rings."

Linda produced two items. For herself, a delicate silver necklace with a tiny, exquisitely detailed bus charm. For Bart, a specially engraved brass plaque that read: "Linda + Bart: Always on Route." She carefully affixed it to his dashboard, beneath his speedometer.

"By the power vested in… well, frankly, by absolutely no one in this particular scenario, but by the general goodwill of the Almighty and the surprising tolerance of the bus company," Derek mumbled, then raised his voice, "I now pronounce you… well, I pronounce you… married." He looked utterly defeated, yet a strange sense of something akin to minor triumph flickered in his eyes. He’d done it. He’d married a woman to a bus. He’d definitely be telling this story at the next synod, probably over a very strong gin and tonic.

"You may… service the… groom," Derek concluded, then quickly corrected himself, "You may… salute the groom."

Linda, ignoring his flustered correction, leaned in and planted a tender kiss on Bart’s grill, just above the bow tie. A small cheer went up from the bus drivers, while Brenda muttered, "At least he won't forget anniversaries."

Life as Mrs. Bartholomew (Linda opted to keep her maiden name officially, but privately considered herself 'Mrs. Bart') was, to her immense satisfaction, refreshingly uncomplicated. Bart continued his daily routes, and Linda continued hers, now with the added joy of knowing their lives were irrevocably interlinked.

Their 'home' was Linda's house, which Bart visited on weekends when he was off-duty for maintenance. He would be parked decorously on the street outside, a magnificent, unexpected presence among the rows of semi-detached homes. Linda would open her curtains in the morning to see him there, his large windows reflecting the sunrise, and a pang of deep contentment would settle in her chest.

Their 'honeymoon' was a series of long, leisurely drives on Bart’s route – a privilege negotiated with the bus company. Linda would sit in the front seat, sometimes humming along to the gentle thrum of his engine, sometimes simply leaning her head against the cool glass, feeling the comforting rumble of her husband beneath her. They'd stop at various bus stops, and Linda would offer bewildered commuters a polite "Good morning!" before the driver, bless his heart, gently informed them that this was, in fact, an 'excursion' and not a regular service.

* * *

The local newspaper, of course, had a field day. "Woman Marries Bus!" screamed the headline of the Little Puddlington Gazette, accompanied by a blurry photo of Linda kissing Bart’s grill. The story went viral, attracting curious tourists who would sometimes line the Number 37 route, hoping to catch a glimpse of the eccentric Mrs. Bartholomew and her mechanical spouse.

One afternoon, a few months into her unique marriage, Linda was waiting at her usual bus stop. Bart was running a little late, caught in unexpected traffic. A young man, probably a student, leaned against the shelter, scrolling on his phone.

"Bloody buses," he grumbled, unaware of Linda’s special connection. "Always late. Never know where you stand with them. Not like a car, eh? At least a car's dependable."

Linda smiled serenely. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. Some buses are the most dependable things you'll ever meet. They might be a bit slow sometimes, but they never judge your musical taste, or leave the toilet seat up, or suddenly decide they need to 'find themselves' in Bolivia."

The student looked up, completely perplexed by her intensity. "Right. Uh, whatever you say, lady."

Just then, Bart rounded the corner, his bright yellow frame a comforting beacon in the grey afternoon. He pulled to a smooth stop, his doors hissing open. Linda's heart swelled.

"See?" she said, stepping onto the bus. "Always gets there in the end."

She took her usual seat, near the front, and laid her hand gently on the seat-back, feeling the faint vibrations of Bart’s engine. He might not have a soul, or a voice, or a preference for Earl Grey, but he was constant. He was reliable. And in a world full of Mark-types, that was more than enough.

Back at the vicarage, Reverend Derek Paddington was pouring himself a very large gin. He’d just received a letter from the Archdeacon, requesting an "informal chat" about a certain highly publicised wedding. Derek sighed. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d allowed himself to be convinced. But then, it wasn't every day you witnessed such… profound devotion. Even if it was aimed at a double-decker. He took a fortifying gulp of gin. Perhaps, he mused, God’s dominion over creation truly did extend to the Number 37 bus. He just hoped the Archdeacon saw it that way.