Late one quiet night, a drunk guy gets pulled over after swerving just enough to catch a patrol car’s attention on an otherwise empty road. The city feels paused, like it’s holding its breath, streetlights humming softly over asphalt that hasn’t seen much action in hours. The patrol car follows for a block longer than necessary, just to be sure, then the lights flick on, splashing red and blue across storefront windows and parked cars. The driver sighs as if mildly inconvenienced, easing his car to the side with exaggerated care, aligning it almost too perfectly with the curb.
When the officer approaches the window, the unmistakable smell of alcohol spills out into the cool night air, thick enough to make the officer take a subtle step back. Asked how much he’s had to drink, the man smiles confidently, the kind of smile that suggests he believes charm is a universal currency, and says, “Just a couple,” drawing out the words as if they carry legal weight.
He chuckles softly, nodding at his own answer, as though he’s just cracked a clever joke. The officer asks him to step out of the car, and the man does so with dramatic caution, one hand braced on the door, the other lifted for balance like a tightrope walker. He sways slightly but insists he’s perfectly steady, even offering commentary about how the ground feels “a little softer than usual.” He laughs again, brushing off the whole situation as a misunderstanding, explaining that he’s had a long day, that the road markings are confusing at night, that anyone could drift a little when they’re tired.
