–Livana–
My husband arrived late—tipsy, as always. The faint rustle of the door, the hesitant weight of his steps, and the soft scent of alcohol intermingled with his cologne told me enough before his lips pressed gently against my head. "Livana," he whispered, as though the utterance of my name could absolve his lateness or his sins. It has always been his ritual greeting, a habit he insists upon because, in his mind, I am still blind. It's his way of announcing his presence, as if the kiss and the whisper could prevent me from mistaking him for an intruder.
As if I needed it.
