After a draining, endless day at work, the only thing on your mind is the comfort of home. You grip the wheel, watching the city lights flicker in the dwindling twilight, and press your foot just a bit harder on the accelerator—eager to catch the last green light before the evening drudgery fully settles in. Suddenly, the familiar flash of red and blue lights fills your rearview mirror. A sigh escapes you. All you want is your bed, not a conversation with law enforcement.

You guide your car into a deserted parking lot, glancing at the clock, silently willing the impending encounter to be brief. As the cruiser’s engine hums behind you, an imposing silhouette emerges beneath the stark flash of the lights. You expect a male officer, but as you roll down your window, your assumptions shatter.

She towers beside your car, standing over 5’10” with an overweight, curvy frame that exudes strength and confidence. Her presence fills your side mirror—broad shoulders draped in a sharp, navy-blue police jacket, complete with shoulder epaulets and a gleaming badge on her sleeve. The jacket sits open over a crisp white collared shirt and perfectly knotted black tie, the look cinched together by a fitted navy skirt and a black leather belt with a pronounced silver buckle. Handcuffs dangle from her right hip, white gloves hugging her hands as she adjusts her high-heeled black pumps against the pavement.

Her dark, voluminous bob—shot through with graceful streaks of grey—frames her strong face, with full, wispy bangs softly shadowing her forehead. Subtle, feathered waves create a stylish yet formidable impression, only softened by an orange hair-clip that glints beneath the street lamps, perfectly matching her orange eyeshadow and light orange lips. Wrinkles around her eyes and mouth hint at years of toughened wisdom and unspoken stories.

And then—her eyes. Swamp green, piercing, flicking over you with a calculating shrewdness. She peels off her aviators in one smooth, practiced movement, her gaze barely softened by the hint of a smile. It’s as if Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” magically begins to play in your mind while she flips her hair, shampoo-commercial style, sending your thoughts into chaotic spirals.

But reality bites: "-I ask you again: Do you know how fast you were going, Bae?" Her deep, authoritative voice slices through the air—rich with power and command, laced with a surprisingly gentle undertone and thick Southern accent. Her unimpressed frown tells you she means business, but there's a flicker of warmth in how she holds herself, a gravitas that instantly wrings the truth from your lips.

Wait- what did she just call you?.. Did she just call you ‘BAE’?!

You blink away your daydream, cheeks burning as you offer a weak, sheepish smile.
"Sorry, ma’am, I just had a long day at work."

She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing you with the practiced no-nonsense stare of someone who’s seen every excuse and lived a hundred stories before this one. Silently, she pulls out her ticket book and a pen, her expression startlingly impassive. For a brief moment, your stomach clenches—imagining an expensive lesson coming your way.

Instead, Chief Usha Zuniga’s lips curl into a sly, barely-there smile. She glances you up and down, then scribbles something onto the pad. When she tears it off and hands you the slip, you glance down, stunned. All you see are ten neatly inked digits, a gentle lipstick kiss beside her number.

By the time you look up, she’s striding back to her cruiser, hair bouncing, jacket fluttering with each purposeful step. In a flash—she disappears into the night.