Shit, spat Rita under her breath, when the annoying wail of sirens reached her ears like the bell of damnation. The blue-and-red flashing light reflected on the rearview mirror; myriad thoughts raced through her mind, most of them about speeding into the night, somehow disappearing in some small, dark alley.
Alas, there was nowhere to go; a long, straight avenue, devoid of traffic, and very well lit. She drew a deep breath (fearing it could potentially be one of the last breaths of freedom she'd ever draw) and pulled over.
It had been an intense night out with her friends, whom she hadn't seen in months; they allowed themselves to revert back to their young rowdy selves, indulging in drinking and pot-smoking at a fancy nightclub.
The police car stopped right behind her and she observed petrified the tall, lean cop walking towards her slowly and determinedly. However, even the horror of losing her driving license (or, even worse, ending up at the drunktank) did not clear up her hazed mind; her surroundings were blurry and she burst into dry giggling, when the officer knocked on the car's window.
"Hello, officer," she said, suppressing—not very successfully—her laughter, "is there anything wrong?"
"Are you okay, ma'am?" He asked, scanning her thoroughly with his inquiring glare.
"Why, yes, I'm..." she paused, swallowed down, drew a few deep breaths.
"You do realize you were going 50 miles over the speed limit, right?"
"Was I?!" She exclaimed in genuine surprise. "I'm so terribly sorry, I..." the words came out of her mouth either too fast, or too slow, struggling to maintain a sober-esque speech rhythm, "I'm in a hurry, my... husband, called me, and..."
"An emergency at home, huh?" He smirked. "If only I had a dime for every time I heard that."
"I know how it sounds, I... I don't, it's just..."
"License and registration, please," he demanded.
Rita, momentarily stunned, handed him the papers, who returned to his car. Now was the time, she realized, but did not step on the gas; it would have been pointless. She stared at the rearview mirror; the cop would soon know she lied about being married—is that another crime? she wondered suddenly in terror—and of her outstanding DUIs.
He returned, rubbing his eyebrows somberly, his expression solemn and cold.
"Please," he instructed her sternly, "step out of the car."
She did; resistance would have been fruitless and she had already regretted the third round of tequila shots. She stole a glimpse of her jacket in the back seat, wherein she abruptly remembered there was an 8ball of cocaine.
"Ma'am," he said, "will you walk a straight line for me, please?"
Rita did; or, at the very least, did her best. But, it was pointless. Walking in a straight line at her condition would have been impossible, even if she was not wearing seven-inch heels. She staggered, concentrating solely on not falling face-first on the asphalt.
"Should I even ask you to blow in this?" He lifted the breath-analyzer.
"Probably not, but, I'd gladly blow something else..." the words came out of her mouth on their own volition and her lips curled in a meaningful smile.
The officer looked at her stunned, and speechless.
"I mean," she continued, suddenly overwhelmed with alcohol-courage (and bravery from knowing she was anyway doomed), "there's no traffic and... it must be so lonely, patrolling the streets so late at night."
She lifted her tight-fitting mini-skirt, for a brief flash of her naked pussy.
"What the hell's going on?" A stern voice came from behind her, startling her.
"I'm not sure," the officer said.
"Drunk?" the other officer asked, standing next to his partner.
