What Are You Supposed To Be
What kind of car is that? I yell, looking out the window.
Just an ordinary car, my husband says.
With a star on it and a cherry on top?
A police car? He guesses.
What on earth has he done?
Has he killed somebody?
Is he a mass murderer?
Is he getting served divorce papers?
I glare at him, wondering if he is a bigamist.
He goes to the door to open it.
Steps outside.
Sure. He does not want me to know what it’s about.
I run over and rip open the door.
It’s his buddy Jake, dressed as a police officer.
What are you supposed to be? I demand.
Jake and Joe both stare at me.
“I think I’ll be the sheriff,” Jake says.
I had forgotten he was running.
Because we live in a different county.
I congratulate him and go back in the house, much meeker now.
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