He blinks, slowly, once, twice. A deliberate lapse in the guard held, the attention to surroundings paid.
"Marvellous," he beams.

When the dance concludes, he steers them both in the direction of the bar. It would be poetic if the crowd parted for them like a sea before a prophet. Alas, once the spectacle of dance is over, no one really pays them any attention beyond trying to find perhaps a new person to dance with.

"What is thy poison of choice?" the Mycologist eyes the bottles displayed.