For one night, it could be good, Burr told himself, even though this Alexander made fun of him at the bar, because after all he was somewhat entertaining, and Burr hadn’t had much fun lately…
Alexander making eyes at him outside the general’s own tent. One night was all it could be, Burr told himself, front lines being what they were—he was leaving in the morning anyhow, but when you knew you could die any day, you had to live in the now.
Just one night, Burr told himself, before Hamilton got married, and then never again—he knew Hamilton would never cheat on his wife. One night to say goodbye. Hamilton was the euphoric bachelor, and what infatuation Burr tasted on his lips belonged thoroughly to the bride.
But just this once, Burr told himself two years later, because co-workers shouldn’t be fucking and Theodosia wouldn’t like it, but they’d won another case and victory was too sweet not to savor.
Just one night, Burr told himself, because he was curious about these meetings Hamilton’s been having with Jefferson, and Hamilton was smug enough that after a night together he’d probably open up about it. (In the end, he did.)
And then one year Hamilton’s family was away for the summer, and they were both frustrated and tired, so okay, Burr thought to himself, one more good fuck, because hey, they were both old enough to know it didn’t mean anything.
And, one more time, Burr told himself, when Hamilton, estranged from Eliza, was so desperate, and Burr didn’t know how to say no to this, to him. Tomorrow they’d remember they were political rivals, Burr would let Hamilton retreat. As always—Burr didn’t cling to things that couldn’t be, and there was nothing more impossible than Hamilton.