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The irony of it all would make her laugh if she was a different type of person.
But Betty is who she is without hesitation or remorse.
So, instead, she chokes on it, the humility of it all getting caught in the back of her throat.
With a graceless thud, her back hits the mattress as Don settles between her thighs with all the ease and practice she wished he no longer possessed. The fabric of the bedspread is scratchy, the sheets stiff, but his moan is learned and welcome and fills her up wholly after she swallows it.
Outside the window a streetlight flickers. The invasion of privacy filters into the dark room and does its absolute best to pull her back into reality. Betty resists. Keeps moving. Kisses Don harder, deeper.
With a moan, her thighs tighten around his waist, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the skin at his shoulders in an effort to forget.
It starts soon after his second marriage commences.
There is no rhyme or reason. No true beginning.
It just happens.
The progression is natural, almost too easy. There are drinks that very first night, a dinner in the city with too much wine, and a half-hearted ploy to be better parents for their children. They speak in platitudes about finally beginning to move past the anger and towards some sort of regrowth.
In the end, Betty kisses Don because she can. Because she wants to. Because she desperately wants to garner an honest reaction from a man whose lies are indiscernible from his truths.
In the end, Betty kisses Don because she wants to see if he will kiss her back with the same warmth and conviction he always did a lifetime ago when they were two very different people with a very different future before them. Betty needs to know if she can still taste the hint of bitter lies and half-truths, of all those broken promises that were always on the tip of his tongue, on the tip of every word he spoke, but took her years to learn how to identify.
In the end, Betty kisses Don because she perpetually wants what she can never have.
Tonight is rushed.
It is full of need and want. His mouth is harsh against hers, his fingers rough between her thighs. Betty moans and kisses him back with fervor, opening her legs wide for him to settle between comfortably. The feel of his weight is both welcome and appreciated.
The way Betty’s hands curl around the curves of his face lets him know that she still loves him in her own twisted, ill-conceived sort of way, but the way her teeth bite at his lips to the point of drawing blood allows him to know that still hates him too.
Betty has walked that fine, thin line for so long she doesn’t truly know the difference anymore.
Don doesn’t bother with sweetness or slowness. He does not whisper sweet nothing in her ear, does not bother to trace bone or muscle from memory. He simply moves and keeps moving towards a singular goal of release. She tries not to miss that side of him, to miss the people they were once upon a time in the very beginning of things.
Tonight, Don takes exactly what he wants and Betty allows it. Comes with him buried deep inside of her, his thumb smooth and hard against her clit.
After, her hands shake as they fumble with a cigarette.
Down below, on the streets of Manhattan, sirens blare and the light outside their window keeps flickering.
"You remember Italy?" she asks softly. Her lips leave imprints on the white stick between her fingers.
Don laughs and the sound does much to warm her against the cold New York winter. Still, now, he has this effect on her. She hates him for it. She will never not hate him for it.
"Of course."
Betty sighs, the sound slow and tired, and she twists her neck to work the kink out. Tries not to feel the remembrances of him between her thighs. Tries to remember a time when she didn't love him in some sort of way.
"I wish we were still those people,” she says quietly.
He moves off the bed, the mattress relaxing without his weight. For a moment Betty thinks he didn’t hear her. She hears him rustle with the mini-bar behind her. The thick, heady scent of scotch wafts through the air and Betty anticipates the clink of the bottle against the glass tumbler before it even occurs.
Don laughs again, but this time the sound is mirthless, hollow as it presses into her skin.
"We were never those people, Betty.”
She sighs again, reaching forward to stub her dying cigarette out on the windowsill.
Still, she doesn’t turn to look at him.