Margaret had never been aroused by a man in uniform, which was why she was uncomfortable, if not angered outright, when she found herself squirming in her trolley seat, staring at the young Boston City Police Officer who had just boarded. He was leaning against the wall behind the conductor, facing the passengers. Four fingers were all she imagined he could fit into the front slit pocket of his fitted navy trousers.
Sitting next to Margaret was a retarded man who lifted his head to the officer and said warmly, "Hi, howya doin'," as though they'd once been in combat together. The officer opened his mouth and closed it quickly with a nod. This was supposed to be a greeting, she guessed. Then he moved the sunglasses -- mirrored, no less -- from the top of his head and shielded his eyes with them. Margaret thought this was rude.
She let her eyes fall to the black, plastic-sheathed club which hung along the seam of his left thigh. His body was tight, shifting with the trolley jolts in the limited at ease of military men: shoulders aligned, elbows cocked. The club had a ribbed handle, its tip hit just above his knee. Margaret imagined him receiving it for the first time. She saw it handed to him, horizontal, like a Medieval sword or a rescued damsel. Was he proud of it? Was he ashamed? Afraid?
"You're staring," said the young officer with a smile. Two mirrored eyes and a cob of white teeth.
Margaret inhaled. "Is that a crime?" The one time her lips touched, they lingered there. Just for a moment.
She wasn't too late coming home. They had made love on the floor of his studio apartment which, as it turned out, was only two stops away at Symphony. The first time was frantic: her skirt hiked up so that her skin scraped along the outside seams of his navy trousers, her panties shoved aside. She angled the officer's club against her with an ankle and held it between her calf and underthigh. The sex was loud without noise -- the silence of a stadium of cheering people that sounds, eventually, like a whisper. By the second time, after a half-glass of Coke -- all he had in his fridge besides mayonnaise and two packets of duck sauce -- they were more or less naked. Margaret traced the dark space between their bodies with one finger until they were interrupted by the static of his walkie-talkie. They called him "49-O" and said he had to take a carjacking statement in Cambridge.
For dinner, Margaret reheated two slices of last night's pizza and watched Star Trek. Then Cops. She turned to WGBH and watched animals chase each other in yellow fields. It was the officer's club she thought of as she fell asleep. Where it was. What it was doing now. And with whom. It would be best, she decided, if the next time he needed it he unstrapped that club and lay it at the person's feet. And if he walked away.