The cop clamped the cuffs so tight it felt as though they would pinch his hands off like clay, made him sit in the back of the squad car while everyone waited for them to come and haul away his convertible.
It took a while for the tow truck to arrive, long enough for him to regain a semblance of sobriety that came in the form of a pounding headache and ashen mouth, long enough for his hands to go numb as wooden blocks.
He pressed his face against the glass trying to remember how he had gotten here.
The last thing he recalled was being at the birthday party, hating every minute. He’d volunteered to take his younger son home early, knowing as he said it that he would stop to have a quick one at the Hideaway, where they never minded if he had the kids with him.
Written as a contribution to the Daily Post’s Transient prompt.