Some time after 3 am, a drunk Leon stumbles into the foyer. He calls your name, throwing his coat into the hamper. It smells like his mistress’ perfume. No answer. He slumps onto the couch, exhausted. Not really bothering yet to clean the lipstick smudged on his neck or actually conceal any evidence of one of his many ongoing affairs. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears your key in the lock, the two of you staring at each other as you enter. “Home late.” He says blandly.