You Don't Say

by r2

All of a sudden traffic is at a standstill, you see the flashing lights up ahead and you realize it's a roadblock. Crap, crap and double crap with ice-cream on top. You unbutton your blouse another button hoping it's a male cop waving cars through. Thank God for implants.

You practice what you're going to say. You were at a movie. What time do the movies let out? Doesn't matter, because then you went for some Starbucks. You don't want to say you were at a party with your friend Cloe and four or five guys you don't even know. You're won't talk about bumping up. You won't even mention the Mojitos.

You pop a couple Tic Tacs in your mouth and a stick of Double-Mint gum. Keep it cool, girl, you don't want to be chomping too loudly when you roll down the window.

As you pull closer to the cops you think to yourself that you didn't have that much alcohol, really. One or two drinks. Maybe a smidgeon before the party. Some crystal. A little weed. Can't smell that shit. No biggie.

The cops are waving the cars though pretty fast.

One more car and then it's:

Showtime.

Good, it's a male. Traffic cop. Pudgy. Sweating. Eager to keep things moving. You roll down the window.

“Yes sir,” you say.

He looks at your face. You try to keep from laughing. You arch your back a little as if you're stretching. His eyes drop. Yep, the implants were worth every nickel. You're glad he's not looking too closely at your eyes.

You don't want to tell him how much they burn. You can just imagine how red they are. You don't want to tell him that all the sounds seem to have an echo to them. You don't want to tell him it feels like there are ants inside your skin.

“What's going on?” You ask.

“Oh, there was a wreck up ahead. Guy didn't make the curve up there. He was drinking.” The cop's eyes are still focused on your chest.

“That's terrible you say,” and stifle a giggle. “He's okay, I hope”

“Nope, DOA.”

You still want to laugh. Why is everything so funny?

“Oh golly, that's terrible,” you say. Golly? Maybe you should shut up. You've got to quit talking.

You don't want to tell the cop his face is starting to melt. Or, that, really you were partying your brains out and now you're about to lose it.

He says nothing for a several beats. Maybe a full minute. Maybe longer. Again, you want to giggle.

But it's okay, he's waving you on. Everything's cool. You look at the overturned car in the drainage ditch as you drive past.

There were many things you didn't tell the fat, sweaty cop. You didn't mention your party was to celebrate the end of your relationship with Hank. Hank, the bastard, who loved to slap you around. Hank, who lived with you at the top of the hill just before the crazy curve up ahead. You didn't tell the cop that, after taking a couple swigs yourself, you hid a pint bottle of Old Crow under the driver's seat of Hank's car. Or that you removed all the lug nuts of the left front wheel, except one, which you loosened so that it was hanging by a thread, literally.

Some things are just better left unsaid.