Stephen

"It couldn't be… and yet for a brief moment I thought it was. The girl I had dreamed about…the girl that had figured in my every erotic fantasy.

At school she had been head girl; three years above me and probably a million light years away from ever looking my way. Head girls don't talk to lowly 5th. Graders, I wonder if in fact if they ever see them?

Not that I am not worthy of a look. Even though I would never say it through modesty, I am good looking although only five feet eight inches tall. I have a slim athletic body, good bone structure with brown eyes and straight thick dark brown hair. I think I was popular with the girl's because somehow they felt I was non- threatening and could be handled easily.

At school I always seemed to be the first choice when circumstance dictated that the girl did the asking… always first on the party list… first to be asked by the pretty and flirtatious faces of the girls in my year… "Come and sit with us"… "There's room here", "You going to the dance, Steve?" etc. I rarely refused an invitation and enjoyed my popularity, but the Holy Grail in the personage of Debbie Pearson… was always out of my reach.

It's been a year since I left school and started my accountancy training and she was still on my mind. Instantly recognizable! The same beautiful natural ash blonde hair, tied neatly back with a subtle tiny black bow. Her face, still as neatly featured as I had remembered, with those wonderful green eyes, the colour and the depth of the world's most exquisite emeralds. Her teeth the same perfect white, framed by the most exquisite lips. Her figure, slender and lithe, with wonderfully firm breasts, narrow waist and perfectly proportioned tanned legs that seem to go on forever. I remembered all this and yet I had seen her, or thought I had seen her, for a mere instance… just a glimpse as she was reflected many times before becoming a pale image in the heavy toughened glass of the security counter.

I felt the blood rush to my face. I wanted to flee, to run away… nearly an adult of nineteen years old… and I really wanted to run.

Surely it could not be!

That she worked here?

I shivered, feeling my cheeks burn and my throat constrict. I could not, simply could not, endure the shame if it were true. I collected my senses. Of course it was an illusion… a mere culmination of my trauma of the morning. Of course that was exactly what it was!

The court had been as bad as I had feared. I was spared nothing, nor I admit had I deserved to have been.

Driving with in excess of 20mg. of alcohol in breath. Statute 20/92 of The Driving Code. Made law on October 23 2015. ‘Any person found in charge of a vehicle with…'

I had read the charge through many times as I sat in the waiting room. Basically since October, one bottle of beer would put an average weight man near the limit that he could legally drive a car. The new limit had been in operation for four days when I had been caught by the two female police officers in the police car.

I could think of no mitigation to offer the court. Eventually I was called. The attractive female court official, her expression, neither condemning nor sympathetic, had ushered me into the courtroom. The three female district judges bade me stand up while the prosecuting lawyer read the charge. I watched her walk towards the middle of the court so that she could point to me and still face the panelled dais where the judges sat, their ornate wooden benches, hiding all but their heads and shoulders.

"Stephen Woodrow Ryder. You have been charged with driving with in excess of 20mg. of alcohol in breath. How do you plead?"

I had looked at the judges. The middle of the three, probably thirty five years old; her suit immaculately tailored, her hair swept back into a neat bun, looked at me questioningly as I stood before the court, shamefaced and trembling.

"Guilty, Ma'am"

The lady to her right, her black hair shining under the strong lights, had pursed her red lips into a thoughtful expression before speaking. "You have no legal representation; do you wish the court to appoint someone?"

I managed to stammer a reply.

I am guilty er Ma'am.. er I have no er… defence."

She looked me in the eye.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I have nothing to say Ma'am."

"You are not even sorry?" Her sardonic expression was accented by one beautiful eyebrow raised quizzically as she questioned me.

I stammered, like the fool I felt. "Oh no, Ma'am… I er… mean I am most dreadfully sorry. I deserve to be guilty…er I mean I am guilty and most dreadfully sorry." I could not stop myself. I felt tears well up in my eyes. I er only had a mile to go… er and the road is always deserted at that time of night… and I drove so slowly er that the police car stopped me…" I could not stop my tears flowing as I rambled on.

"I mean to say… I was a fool… er an inconsiderate stupid, stupid fool. I had no thought for the consequences or who I might have harmed…and no one to blame but myself. I am so, so, so sorry Ma'am."

I stood silent, I had been a fool and I knew it. I could not help my tears I looked down at my feet and waited for the worst, hearing only the clackety clack from the machine of the court stenographer.

The Lady who was sat at the other side of the senior judge had looked at me long and hard while I had been questioned. She was probably in her late forties and although attractive, looked as if she did not suffer fools gladly.

I did not raise my head again to see them leave; I looked to my side, my attention drawn by a gentle tug on my sleeve. It was the court officer who had first led me in. She had a kindly and concerned expression on her face. I was too upset to appreciate the nuance of her look as she whispered to me. "You may sit while the judges consider their verdict."

I can't remember how long I waited. I could not stop crying, I considered what would have happed… had I run someone over… or hit another car… all the possible outcomes of driving when one's reactions are slowed.

I was not privy to the deliberations behind the large wooden door that led off from the back of the judge's benches.