Indian Girl From Tampa
Another grey, mundane day. Januaryis the worst. The light from the fridge illuminated my face as I scannedits contents. Half a carton of orange juice. A half consumed block ofcheese. I sighed, knowing I'd have to make a trip to the shop. Theseexcursions regular and erratic, never buying enough food to last morethan a day or two.I slung my suit jacket over the dining table and began undressing. Mostmedia jobs don't involve wearing a suit, but our office lives and dies bythe beliefs of the older generations. Fucking 70s work ethics. I seemedto be the only person in there that had to take work home with them,everyone else clocked in, logged on and fucked off home at 5:30. Icouldn't just produce my writing to that deadline. When inspirationstruck, it didn't give a shit about the "working day'.Today was no different, I'd tried to scrape the words together for anarticle entitled "The Modern Man," some vague idea that had been formingat the back of my mind for some time. But ultimately I'd. What if he ran a breath test on her, with all she had to drink last night she might not be able to pass. That would get her license more than suspended. She had to get out of this ticket.Janet ignored the Trooper's approach and quickly moved to the glove compartment for her papers, determined to be the very model of cooperation and sweetness."License please, young lady." said a deep masculine voice.With a bright smile on her face, Janet turned to face the Officer, papers in hand. Her mouth dropped open when she got her first good look at him. Behind the mirrored sunglasses and tan uniforms was a tall, muscular black man - dark as the midnight sky."Do you know how fast you were going..." He said as he looked at the license "Miss Rabinowitz" he read off the license."Too fast I guess..." Janet said in her most apologetic voice. "I guess with no one else on the road it's too easy to push it a little too hard."In return all she got was a little grunt as he examined her papers. She.
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