Gene sat in his car, the red and blue lights pulsing behind him.
He pleaded with the officer. The car in front had its signal on. It was supposed to turn. It didn’t. The collision wasn’t Gene’s fault.
Nothing was ever his fault. The expired inspection stickers. The missed insurance payments. The failed marriage. The lousy three-room attic apartment he called home. A lifetime of futility mocked him through the windshield.
He blew positive on the Breathalyzer. His second offense. He waited for his ex-wife to come pick him up.
The ideal life swirls up from the bottom of his beer.