TRAFFIC

I return from a sweltering day with the Guyana Traffic Police.  My husband, a bank teller, is already there.  Something in his manner says trouble.  I pour lemonade, wait.
"Well you see it's like this.  We gotta do our own thing, have our own space, experience life more fully and ..."
I sense it pointless to argue.  I sit numb, watching, as he exits with 2 already-packed suitcases.
In search of company, I knock on Mrs Ramprashad's door, she's the retired pensioner.  She serves tea and I pour out the story.
"Dear, wife is always last to know.  He's been yapping bout you, how black you are these days."
"Goes with outdoor work."
"Don't tell me, tell him, I can tell you where he is, Jasmine's apartment, nother teller."
"Nah, let the rat go."  I feel better as I leave.  As I look out the window, I realize there's still lotta guys left in the Police.  Take Brijlall, nice guy, but super-shy, he'd never dare ask.  Bet he'd love to go to Demico House, best burgers in town.  Or maybe he's more into Sip N Chat, the trendy bakery cafe.  Yeah, things'll be ok.