Never Again

The following piece was written for

FORUM

The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

Disclaimer:

I really DON'T drink.

This piece is ENTIRELY FICTITIOUS.

I have already received a comment about "airing my dirty laundry."

Just thought I should tell you, my laundry may be dirty,

but I do empty the laundry basket on Saturdays.

LOL

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Never Again

It was stupid drinking all that champagne. I knew it at the time, but it tasted so wonderful. Usually, I don’t even drink. But COLD DUCK is different. You see Cold Duck is a special kind of champagne, and it, unlike other champagnes, is DELICIOUS. It’s the only thing that ever tempts me to imbibe .

And so, at the party, I filled up my glass twice, lapping up the Cold duck like a kitty savoring her Christmas cream. Scrumptious! When I’d finished those glasses full of god's nectar, I was flying from the moon. Life was sweet. I felt rich and beautiful. I felt like I had the voice of Barbra Steisand. I could have talked my way into the presidency; eloquency was in my voice, my manner, and my thought processes. I didn’t even care that I was leaving another women's-only party again, single for a third year in a row. What did I need men for? Cold Duck was even better.

I was still feeling like dancing on tabletops when I drove my little blue car out of Kathy’s driveway. I sang a song and sounded operatic. I trilled. I yodeled. I did a Santa, "Ho, ho, ho!" I laughed with the freedom of the season, thinking how good it felt just to be alive . . .

And then, the cop behind me, flashed his colored lights. They were beautiful, yellow and blue disco lights, but they sent a sick feeling throughout me. My high crashed. My low rose up into my throat and almost swallowed me. I wished I’d never even heard of Cold Duck.

Life was suddenly no longer sweet. I remembered that my husband had left me four years ago. I was reminded that my dates had all disconnected. My stomach was rounded. My thighs were huge. I couldn't carry a tune. My jokes were dated and limp from weak delivery. Tears juiced up my eyes. I swabbed them, and sat up straighter, waiting for the doom I deserved.

The policeman strode up to my window. His uniform was the black of death, a gun on one side, a stick on the other. I felt a hand gripping my neck, wringing me back to reality.

I handed the officer my license without waiting for his words. I watched his fingers, clasping the flashlight, lighting up the harsh facts of my life. He had my age, my height, my marital status, my weight. I started sinking into the car, wilting as if he'd slapped me.

He held the card in his right hand, studying it, memorized my dull existence. He looked at me, examined my makeup, probably noticed my nose was too big, my lips too narrow. Then he studied the card again.

“You’re out late, ma’am. You coming from a party?”

“Yes. We were playing cards, just a bunch of women.”

Why had I said that? I almost slapped my cheek, but my hands were trembling. I clutched at them, waited for more questions that I could answer with equal stupidity.

I gave the policeman a half-smile, but I was so nervous, it probably came out more like a grimace.

“Did I do something, officer?” I asked him as he continued to stare at me, still analyzing my nose, or perhaps noticing the pimple next to it that I'd tried to cover-up. Was it red again? I wanted to grab the mirror and check, but I took in a deep breath and steadied my nerves. “I wasn’t speeding, officer,” I managed to say without my voice cracking or dying out.

“No, ma’am. It’s just that during the holiday season, we do random stops of cars to check that no one’s been drinking.”

“Oh,” I said, praying he wouldn’t ask me if I had.

“You have far to go, ma'am?” he asked, tapping my card against his well-muscled thigh. His flesh was solid as my special orthopedic back-strengthening bed. A flash of desire ran up and down my body.

Not now, I told it. My libido froze, panted a bit, remained wistful.

“No. I live just around the corner,” I told the officer, hoping that maybe I could squeak by this once. I forced myself to look away from the iron thighs of the cop's young, masculine body.

“People who’ve been drinking should never be out on the road,” he told me sternly. “We see too many accidents due to liquor.”

“I know,” I said. Are you married? Are you dating? Are you straight?

I didn't ask those questions. I lowered my eyes, tried to look seriously engaged in his lecture.

The officer returned my license. My hand brushed his. The lust demon sprinted off, screaming up and down my spine.

“Have a nice night, ma’am. Drive safely.”

Oh, how I hate that word "ma'am". I'm not that old, I wanted to say. My lust jogger blew a strawberry and collapsed.

Then it hit me. The cop had walked away. I was free; I'd passed.

My heart still thumped so loudly, I worried the officer might turn around and stare at me again, but he didn’t. (I wanted him to turn around and stare at me.) I heard the door of his car slam shut. The blue and yellow lights turned off, and then the police car pulled out and drove on.

Shaky from my near miss, I started up my Toyota. I was pretty sure all the alcohol inside me had instantly evaporated, attacked by my massive adrenaline fix. I felt sober as a teetotaler.

Five minutes later, I arrived home. The first thing I did was to send up a prayer of thanks. The angels had surely been sitting on my shoulder.

Then I took a vow that no matter how many bottles of Cold Duck they had at the next party, I'd never drink and drive again.

I shuddered as I remembered the policeman’s cold stare, thought over what could have happened. I might be in jail, involved in a wreck . . . dead.

Never again, I promised. Never again drink and slip behind the wheel.

Then I began to remember that officer and his stare. Those hard-packed thighs of his, that dark shadow of whisker that matched the sexy black of his uniform . . . I picked up the phone and dialed.

"Business department? Yes, I was stopped tonight by an officer. I just wanted to compliment his professionalism and his politeness. Could you give me his name, please? He was over on Simon Street." I smiled broadly as I hung up the phone.

I discarded my dress and nylons, threw on sweats, and walked into the kitchen to survey my cupboards and refrigerator. Cookies, candy, and junk foods -- one by one all fed the trash can. Then I carried the can out into the darkness and dumped the contents where it'd be picked up in a couple of hours.

After that, I returned to my bedroom. Fifty sit-ups. Twenty push-ups. His name was Greg Santini, and he hadn't been wearing a gold ring on his finger. Maybe he hadn't noticed my pimple. His stare had traveled further, much further, and he'd taken a lot longer than he needed to determine my ability to drive. And he'd smiled at me, just as he was walking off. He'd smiled. Up, down, up, down, up . . .

Tomorrow I'd write that letter. I'd take it personally to Mr. Greg Santini.

Up, down, up, down, up . . .


~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~