3.23

There is a terrible calmness about his face. I say terrible because why should he be so calm when he causes me such agony.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?"
I eye the road in front of me, wishing to break and run. "No, officer. I was going the speed limit."
"That's not why. Local ordinance requires the use of a seat belt. Can you step out of the vehicle for me?" He stands up from his stooped posture and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops.
I pause.
"Well?" He's impatient. It's not difficult to tell. There's a small crumb from his lunch caught between his belt and his pants. I can feel a bead of sweat slide down my back.
"No, sir."
"I'm sorry?"
I do one of those cartoon swallows, the exaggerated ones from Popeye, where his Adam's Apple flicks up and down and even so I still can't talk. My mouth is dry and my pits are wet. At a dull rasp, I manage a weak "I said 'No, sir;' I can't stand up."
The officer leans back down again. His face is very close to mine. I can smell the lunch that left the crumb. What is that, an everything bagel? He is extremely patient. Too patient. The muscles in his neck stand in sharp relief as he quietly says "Why. Not." It's not a question, but he wants an answer.
I hold up four empty crazy glue tubes. He blinks quietly. I lean forward and my shirt remains stuck to the seat.
"Pants too?"
I nod, meekly.
He breaks eye contact and stares into the field over top of my car, perhaps considering a career change. After a long, wordless moment, he spins and practically staggers back to his patrol car.
My butt is itchy. He drives away.