Sublimemischief, 44

Shining the spotlight around the room, the circle dances over and around so many faces — and finally flashes back over your table and onto you. It's probably an awkward moment to whisper under my breath that I love every last thing you're wearing, including that bemused smile, but you see, I do love every last thing you're wearing and especially that bemused smile.

And then I realize, it's you! The one of mystery reading my bio on the little card. You're all but pointing at me—no you are pointing at me! You're doing that finger-to-nose pointing thing and nodding your head and winking.

Well—clearly—there's no time to waste. I swing down from my perch and make a swimmingly perfect drop onto the adjacent seat. Taking your queue, I do glance back at my quaint path of destruction across the other tables, but quickly relay that spilled wine and askew entrees are all the rage this season.

You laugh and convey an anecdote about the time you swung overhead as well — wherein you found yourself peering down from above the glow of a beautiful expanse of chandelier crystals, impressing upon me, that, the moment was made iconic when this wild swinging fixture set sail downwards — straight into the host's dining table, but alas, bygones —bygones.

Looking into your eyes, I have only one question: Shall we escape this place and make a run for the night that is still young!