I tripped on the last step out of the police station. Oh yes. The mighty Detective McBrennain had decided there was nothing to charge me with after all and released me. Bully, that’s what he was: accusing me of things I knew nothing of, twisting my words, and stealing my sleep. I felt like I’d lost half my weight and part of my mind in sweat and anxiety. And now, here I was, picking myself off the ground, wondering if anyone would see me on my middle of the night hike back home, and hoping my wild floral combination of red, orange, and spring green wasn’t sticking out from under my sweats. I was absolutely too tired to do anything about it.

“Miss?”

I looked up and a policeman motioned me to his car. I had the crazy urge to make a run for it, and I’d like to say common sense prevailed, but who are we kidding? It was fatigue.

“You look tired. Can I give you a ride home?”

Seriously? I began to regret ever going for a mani-pedi and Sunday School cursed everyone involved, including the lovely Lolita, my manicurist. Despite my newly-found mistrust of detectives in general, I got in his car.

“My name is Sergeant John Don. And you are . . .?”

I gave him my name and address, leaned my head back, and, I’m embarrassed to say, immediately fell asleep. I must’ve been roused by the engine turning off. And there in front of me was my boring apartment building. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Good grief. I was so very tired, but not so tired that I didn’t care if people saw me sitting in a police car at 3:00 in the morning. I invited him in.

I flipped the switch to heat the coffee I’d made for McBrennain. Sergeant Don would not get a fresh cup.

Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.

And he had told me something that not only washed away the shame I’d felt as I was questioned by McBrennain, but gave me hope and energy. It turns out, my interview with McBrennain was the final nail in his coffin. Oh yes! Apparently, he’d been so cock-sure of my pitiful vulnerability, he’d revealed more than he realized. According to Sergeant John D., McBrennanin was a bad cop they had been investigating a long while on the suspicion he covered for the car trafficking ring, one of whom was Mr. Glorious. Huh. Well he certainly was in a good position to do so.

Voltaire said, “Fear follows crime and is its punishment”. I believe that it does, but not for everyone. As I warmed my hands on my third cup of coffee (don’t judge unless you’ve had a Why Wine incident of your own), I thought to myself that, as glorious as the stranger had seemed, he didn’t seem the kind who would ever know regret. Or maybe even fear. And McBrennanin? I couldn’t say. Some people love criminality, either outright or cloaked in authority.

I signed something that said I’d testify to everything I told Sergeant John Don, who by now was beginning to develop his own sort of gloriousness. I swallowed my thoughts, gave him a little smile, and closed the door behind him with my beautifully and dreadfully manicured hand.

I left our coffee on the table, grabbed a blanket to cover myself, and fell asleep on the couch. I’d need my beauty sleep if I was going to have another mani-pedi: and I mean the minute Salon de Beauté opened. Why Wine was my new least favorite color. Maybe I’d replace it with Siren Red.

Images: Pexels.com