She said it again. Louder this time. “My likelo.”
He never asked what it meant. Not once in twelve years. my likelo
Leo was her likelo. The man who left love notes in her coffee mug. Who fixed the loose button on her coat even though his fingers were too big for the needle. Who, when she came home crying about a promotion she didn’t get, simply poured her a glass of red wine and said, “Tell me everything. Or nothing. Both are okay.” She said it again