Cucked by a Cop

1

Richard loosened his tie and yawned. "Thank fuck." They were walking across a parking lot littered with other well-dressed couples, worn-out families, and depressed single women. A father was carrying his sleeping toddler to a crimson minivan, while his wife nudged their ten-year-old son along behind him.

"Not so loud," Veronica said, looking at the little boy. "It was a nice ceremony."

Richard snorted. "Was it nice for Terry and Brad to disappear for two hours to take pictures while everyone waited in the reception hall like assholes, just staring at the food?"

"It wasn't that long."

Richard beeped open the doors of their black Lincoln SUV. Veronica had to admit: She was tired. Pulling the passenger-side handle and climbing up into the seat was a Herculean effort. It had been a long night.

"Anyway, it's their day. They deserve it." She stared at the large pit stains on Richard's white dress shirt and the thinning hair plastered to the crown of his head. Gross. "You seemed to have a good time."

He caught her accusatory tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"How many drinks did you have?"

Richard turned on the car and backed out of the space. "It was an open bar. They're practically begging you to drink. It was my favorite part of the whole thing."

"Let me drive."

"Veronica–"

"Let. Me. Drive." She put her hand in the gearshift.

Richard glared at her with glassy eyes and sighed. He threw the car in park, flung open the door and hopped out. When they passed each other at the back bumper, she heard him mutter "Bitch" under his breath.

Veronica rolled her eyes. Richard's boss walked by. "Have a little too much to drink, Dick?"

"No, no," Richard said. "I'm giving her driving lessons. I think it's finally time for her to get behind the wheel."

They both laughed as Richard lumbered to the passenger side of the car and poured himself inside. He slammed the door. "Prick."

"You're just full of compliments tonight."

"I just hate going to these things. I don't even really know Brad. I mean, he's only been at the company for a year. It'd be different, you know, if, if it was, like, our son getting married or something."

Veronica chuckled. "Yeah. I'm sure you'll be totally sober at that one."

She pulled onto the main road and brought the car up to speed. Jesus. When did they turn into that couple? She remembered meeting Richard in college. He was vibrant, fit, confident. He had a plan to be a millionaire by thirty. Somehow that morphed into a middle management position at a mediocre company. The same job for twenty years. Somehow, her husband had turned into the gross old man that always turned her stomach, with sour odors and sweaty jowls and fat rolls and indigestion. Somehow her life was already half over. Somehow.

They lived comfortably, sure. But now that their only child was in college and the house was empty, she and Richard treated each other like strangers, and she was left alone in the house during the day while he worked. The homemaker's kryptonite: empty nest syndrome. Absolute boredom. She could only workout for so many hours each day. Working out did afford her self confidence, but it had recently become a dangerous game. Her taut body, remarkably smooth for her age, drew glances from the men at her gym. And she, desperate for adventure and affection, spent too much time fantasizing about what it would be like to return their looks. Some of those young college boys–damn. She would love to show them a thing or two. She'd even begun to wear skimpier clothing. Midriffs and spandex. She must show off ten new freckles with every new workout. But she did this against her better judgment. It was shameful. She was a forty-six-year old married woman. It didn't matter how weak her marriage was, how dry her husband made her loins, how trapped she felt.

She rolled down the driver's side window. The south Florida air was humid and stale. Her curly black shoulder-length hair was frayed like a fright wig. But the faster she went, the colder the breeze that blasted her face. She pushed on the accelerator with the spike of her silver high heel.

She–

Sirens. Veronica went stiff and looked in the rearview mirror.

"Shit."

"What?" Richard slurred.

"We're getting pulled over."

"What?" He turned around and craned his neck. "Goddamn it." He fell back into his seat and slapped the dashboard. "Perfect."

"Just relax," she said. "I'm not the drunk one."

"No. The drunk one would have driven the speed limit."

Veronica rolled her eyes and pulled onto the shoulder as the red and blue lights flashed across the sky.