Fingers still pressed to her mouth, she nodded vigorously before they slid away. "I think so." With an amazing amount of dexterity for someone who could not stay upright a moment ago (though it helped she had a sturdy anchor), she rubbed the back of her left calf with her right foot. "I can't quite remember." Leaning forward just enough that her nose wasn't entirely smashed flat against his front, she whispered loudly, "I think I might be drunk!"
She had never been drunk before. Her mother said it was not what proper people did, so she always refrained from sometimes even having one drink, as often she couldn't finish it because her cheeks would start to heat halfway through and she developed a horrifyingly embarrassing tendency to titter. Penelope craned her head towards Charlie, to ask if he was having a nice time, or perhaps ask if her laugh was annoying, or—had the thought pushed right out of her airy head. He was smiling at her, and it was such a nice smile, and she was so very happy, and she told him "You're very beautiful."
He was very beautiful, and she was going to kiss him.
She raised herself up on tiptoes to do just that, when she was impeded by a terrible obstacle. He was much further up than she remembered him being earlier. Or was it that she was much further down? Her gaze rolled to the floor, where the sight of ten pink toes stared back at her.
"Fiddlesticks," she muttered, watching them wiggle seemingly of their own accord. But the polish looked very nice, if she did say so herself.
(And she did!)
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