I sat in her car all night and wanted to cry. Me there, alone in the passenger's seat. The radio on, draining her battery. And all that I wanted to do was leak a little of my soul down my face. But I didn't. Or I couldn't. And I had no comprehension why. She'd given me her keys that day, because it was my day off. So for one of the few times during that humid summer I had transportation. I don't even remember if I went anywhere. I don't even remember if that part of my recollection is true. Elton John agreed with me that this is why they called it the blues. Sitting in a bucket seat and trying to find some nugget of consolation in the gay Knight's ballad. But there's wasn't any. Because there there was nothing to console. But I didn't know that. All that I knew was that I really wanted to cry. Not because I felt like it but because that was the expected response. Retrospect tells me that not crying was the expected response. The reaction of someone who isn't really in love. The action of one who doesn't care. But I only know that now. At the time I was just confused because I wanted to cry and I couldn't. Even if just for the emotional memory of crying. Something I could tuck away in my actor's bag of tricks. Something that I could use on stage. Retrospect tells me that I should have remained alone after that night. That my numbed response betrayed my true emotional core. That I didn't care. But somehow I still found myself going through the motions of the betrayed. And somehow I still found myself going through the motions of the beggar. And somehow I still found myself chained back into a coupleship where I held no ardent ante. But I didn't know that. All that I knew was that I sat in her car for 8 hours and wanted to cry. What a waste of a good night's sleep.