Compound Bus

Four times a week our company has a bus come, pick us up at the compound, and take us into the actual city. Half of us are new, so while at least have an idea of who everyone else is, we don’t exactly know the fine details about each others lives.

We all cram on the bus, extra close today as the bus is reaching capacity. We see a man about to board the bus, and she takes the sit beside me so that neither of us have to sit beside a male. Once everyone is settled, the small talk starts.

“Are you (male co-workers name) wife?” he asks me. Before I have a chance to answer, my female coworker states “She’s actually my wife.”

“Well, that actually is legal in my home country,” I remind everyone. We laugh a bit and keep talking. We talk about western women, and why the domesticated ones always have a dark side (think Martha Stewart and Paula Deen).

A bit into the bus ride, our male coworker asks “So, are you guys really married? I can’t tell if you are joking or not?”  Seems I got myself a prison compound wife.




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