She was not crying loudly.

She was crying the way she does, which is that she keeps working and her face gets wet and she is furious about it.

And I did not know what to do, so I got the guitar that I could play about six chords on, and I made up four lines on the spot to be annoying, and I sang them at her until she told me to shut up, and then she laughed, which was the entire objective.

Don’t count it tonight, don’t count it tonight,
the numbers’ll still be there in the morning.

And it became a thing.

That is how these things work.

For the next four years, any time one of us was up past midnight with a column of figures, the other one would say don’t count it tonight from the other room.

It was the only song I ever wrote.

I am not a musician.

It is four lines and two chords and it exists because a woman was crying at a card table.