[J. S. Darling]

There wasn't much to be said for balls. Heh.
Balls. OF THE DANCE VARIETY. He wasn't drunk. No. That would be unseemly. He was toting about a glass of red wine in a not so straight line through the stringlets of people. Persons huddled in solemn pairs, small groups tittering like birds on a wire...

His walk slowed, then stopped as he stared in open fascination at the person in front of him. So... so white. There was so much white. Darling was content to stand and listen and STARE at this Zeo, until a wobbly step taken to correct his poor balance sloshed a few drops of ruby red wine onto that immaculately white jacket.
In bemused horror, he licked a thumb and attempted to do something about it, and managed to rub the color in instead.

"There's only one thing to do about this," he murmured, and promptly downed the rest of his wine, "'nd further cri- crisis, averted."

Darling raised his empty glass and gave a lopsided smile, "No need to thank me."