I want to make you cry.

Last night, I was curled up on the couch with my wife watching something on the laptop'.

We refuse to get a TV on principal, and in case it ruins the vibe of our small apartment, so have quietly settled for TV’s smaller, more portable sibling.

The choice of what to watch that seems to aggravate many couples doesn’t really factor in for us. Most of the time, we agree on something joyful and air-headed like RuPauls Drag Race (all seasons, all countries, all stars) or else Aurelia’s working on her phone and I get to put on ‘my murders’.

Like many frustrating caucasian women before me, I am addicted to Diet Coke and true crime. A good docuseries is like valium to me. I’ve been known to fall asleep seconds after listening to the sentencing of a serial killer, and once slept for 12 hours straight after watching a docuseries about a diabolical cult leader and their gruesome murder spree. Something about getting a glimpse of human extremes, and the comfort of knowing you’re not there. Yet. Ever.

Occasionally, we’ll surprise ourselves and decide on a fictional drama. Outrageous, unheard of, totally unpredictable, we’ll tease the air with our protestations while the anticipation that this could be a ‘just one more episode’ kind of show builds.

^ The show in question.

Our most recent choice was one of those. A moody drama set in a small seething town in the Australian high country. For the month that we spent texting every Tuesday to remind us that it’s High Country night, we laughed, we gasped and winced with Andie Whitford, the lesbian cop with a heart of gold, in her quest to apprehend the truth.

It was the final episode last night, and it was not only a hallmark moment for television, but for me. As the credits dissolved over sweeping music and an incredibly touching moment, I found myself trying not to cry. Not in the trying-but-failing to wipe away tears that were already budding, but in a biting on my lip, gritting my teeth and looking anywhere but at the screen to avoid crying kind of way. I thought about work, how in love we are, Kenzo’s warm belly on my leg, anything to retreat the swelling emotion. Aurelia had been comfortably weeping since the opening scene, but I was doggedly refusing to be moved. 

Why? There’s nothing wrong with crying.

I started remembering all of the times I’ve refused to cry. And then, I started counting them: