Congratulations on Stalling the Cops!

She’ll be in her bra still when the first knock comes.

“Shit,” she’ll say, rolling out of bed with a practiced grace. She seems to have the motions of this moment down pat. She’ll dance between the heaps of her clothing, instinctively drawn to its locations in your already familiar apartment.

You’ll come out of bed clumsily by comparison, largely unaware of just where your clothes fell last night. You’ll feel like you just came out of a deep sleep even though you’ll have been awake next to her for at least an hour.

“Honey?” you’ll mumble, your mouth tasting still of cigarettes and sleep.

“Sorry,” she’ll say.

You’ll shake your head in response. You knew she was a professional thief when you entered in to this relationship. She told you with a sly grin on her face on your first date, never thinking that you actually believed her.

When you went back to her apartment and saw the original Matisses and the priceless Fabrigé eggs you didn’t freak out. Instead you asked her the story behind each of her conquests and she told you, a grin on her face and a beer resting in each of your hands.

She took you to her bed that night and you refused to leave until the two of you arranged a second date.

“You’re too good,” you told her the night after. “You stole my heart without even trying.”

She jokingly threatened to hit you and said it was the cheesiest line ever, but you could see behind her eyes that she thought it was adorable. She thought you were adorable. And she knew that she wanted you just as much as you wanted her, even if it was for completely different reasons.

“I’m a big boy,” you’ll tell her this morning. She’ll nod, stoically. It breaks her heart to put you through this, but you have no qualms about it. It’s just a part of being with her and as such you love it just as much as the sex and the Thursday night sitcoms and the East Village Thai Food.

She’ll tug on clothes with that dancer’s grace and you’ll stumble to the door. You won’t have to act very hard to seem beligerant, hungover and sleepy. The cops won’t have to push you too hard to make you see them as power hungry dicks.

“Who is it?” you’ll shout without even looking through the peephole.

“NYPD,” the response will come. “We had a call about a domestic, we’d like to come in.”

She’s told you that this is their SOP. Some trumped up charges that dictate they enter the apartment without a warrant and don’t conduct a full search, but ensure that all parties are accounted for.

“What?” you’ll say.

“Neighbor lady said she saw you bring someone home, then heard fighting.”

Mrs. McGillicutty, that traitorous cunt. You’ll wonder what they offered her that made her turn on you. You help her carry her groceries on Tuesdays.

“What?” you’ll say again.

You’re an old pro at this game, and even if they are too you’ve still got the advantage. They have to abide by procedures. You just have to play pissed off Joe Citizen long enough for them to get frustrated and break a rule.

You’ll hear muffled cursing on the other side of the door, then a new voice, a woman’s, will come through.

“Sir,” she’ll say, politely, “We need to enter your apartment to ensure that everyone’s safe.”

You’ll bite your lip and nod. Got to get into character.

“Just a second,” you’ll say. “Got to get my pants.”

You’ll hear a sigh on the other side of the door and shuffle off to put on the sweatpants you carelessly draped over the counter on your way in last night. You’ll take a good minute and a half to get them on, but the cops can’t prove you’re anything other than a groggy drunk.

When you come back to open the door they’ll come storming in, the guy twice as big as his voice made him seem. He’ll hold you while the woman, one-hundred and twenty pounds of bitch, runs in to your bedroom to scope the place out.

“Fuck,” you’ll hear her say from your kitchen. Her partner will just blink dumbly.

She’ll emerge from your bedroom and shake her head at him and the two will file out of your apartment dutifully. She’ll shout back at you, “Sorry for the mistake,” half-heartedly.

You’ll smirk as she goes and saunter over to your cell phone, still next to the open window in your bedroom. You’ll text the number labeled ICE “Love you,” and press send. It’s not how you wanted to start your Saturday, but sometimes love makes us do strange things.

Congratulations on Stalling the Cops!