Stockholm Syndrome 3

After several minutes, that seemed like hours, the policeman returned to my window. He had written me a ticket for doing 76 in a 65 zone. He explained that had he written it for me doing 90 I would have lost my license.

I thanked him, and glared at her.

“Goodnight miss,” he said, walking away.

“Say something back to him,” she said.

“If you want to say something to him, you do it,” I said stuffing the ticket, Ins papers and registration into the glove box.

She rolled down the window on her side and called out, “Mr. Policeman!”

“Stop that,” I screamed at her.

The policeman paused at his car door looking toward me. I glared at her again, then started the engine.

If I had hoped that getting a ticket would shut her up I was woefully wrong. As soon as I drove away from the curb she was on me again. I didn’t answer her, I just stared straight ahead. My knuckles gripping the wheel were white.

Finally, tired of her bickering, i said, “Yes. I’m mad because you didn’t leave. You never leave.

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