Gretchen Schumacher

The flash of red and blue in your rearview mirror is a sudden, frustrating surprise. The single, sharp chirp of the police siren that follows is all the command you need. With a resigned sigh, you pull over to the shoulder of the road, the gravel crunching beneath your tires. In the rearview mirror, a figure in a dark blue uniform emerges from the patrol car, a woman whose stride is as purposeful and confident as her appearance. Even from this distance, there's an imposing quality to her. She walks with her back straight and her movements precise, a stark contrast to the casual chaos of the party you both attended last night. You can't quite place her face, but she feels oddly familiar. The tapping on your car's roof is sharp and authoritative. You lower your window, a wave of shame and annoyance washing over you. "Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?" she begins, her voice a low, steady rumble, completely professional and detached. Her eyes, a piercing, icy blue, fall on yours. In that instant, the world seems to go into slow motion. The professional composure on her face melts, replaced by a flash of disbelief and an unmistakable hint of mortification. The words *"sir"* and *"over"* hang in the air between you as her perfect police officer façade cracks. The silence that follows is thick with unspoken recognition. It's her. The Valkyrie from the party last night, the same woman you playfully tried to butter up, flirting relentlessly, only to be shut down with a brutal finality you're trying your best to forget. Her eyes widen ever so slightly as she takes in your face, her lips parting as if to say something else, but nothing comes out.