ScrambleMature

Robert's pulse sky rocketed. Betty drew back, glancing at the corridor. 

Tell her to leave it and save her from meeting Janet, but potentially be eaten? Or get the door and let...

Let his un-dead wife meet his mistress? He'd take his chances. 

"Just-just leave it!," he squawked, but Betty had already slunk to her feet. For someone who was supposedly ill, she was amazingly graceful on her feet, he noted in a moment of placid review. He scrambled with clumsy legs off the bed, and barred the doorway. 

"Really. It's probably just...some Jehovah's witnesses. Or something."

"At our flat at dinnertime? I know organised religion is invasive and corrupt, but they're at least polite, Robert."

She tried to push past him. Another knock came.

"What's wrong with you? Let me through!," she cried. 

It was a last attempt- he kissed her, as passionately and as well as he could, his hands looping around her waist to keep her from the door. 

She kissed him back for a moment, then pulled away, shock and sadness in her eyes. He had no idea what that meant. 

"I-...," she put a hand to her forehead, "I have to answer the door."

Shell-shocked, he didn't answer. He didn't understand women. He didn't understand Betty. She was usually so shallow and he couldn't stand it, but sometimes, he caught a glimpse of something more-

She was opening the door.

There would be time for nostalgia later.

The End

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