This is not what I do
It’s the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you
It’s the wrong time
For somebody new
It’s a small crime
And I’ve got no excuse

-Damien Rice

I don’t know what the catalyst is. There’s no pattern I’ve recognized. New place, or one that we frequented, one with memories. Male companionship or female. Group or single. Someone new, someone just for me, or someone who loved us both. But sometimes. Sometimes after an evening out, I pull into the driveway, turn off the motor, and sit for a moment. Then I scream, over and over. Not your name, not anymore. Wordless. I didn’t know I was capable of this.