Our car idles on the side of the road as the cruiser’s lights flash. The officer saunters up, gestures for us to lower the window.

“Do y’all know why I pulled you over?” he drawls, his eyes inscrutable behind mirrored shades.

“Uh, no, officer, I don’t.”

A badge flashes, held safe in a leather wallet. “Kentucky Fashion Police,” he says. “Ordinarily we don’t pull people over, but after seeing what y’all were doing, well…we had to make an exception. Please step out of the vehicle.”

“Are you really allowed to arrest people for bad fashion choices?”

The officer sucks at something in his teeth. “Boy,” he says, “this here’s Kentucky. We let a lot slide by, but not this. You best thank your lucky stars you weren’t wearing that in California. CFP’d have you in the chair for it.”

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