"No," Tony said, stopping heavy in his tracks rather than dodging, looking not at all put out by the near-miss. His eyes were fixed on his glass, half a drink he'd flattered off some woman after getting her assurances that all it was making her feel was drunk; there was bright orange lipstick on the rim, and its contents, a sickly, medicinal purple, were doing far, far too little to get his blood alcohol content up to normal operating levels. He was not all right. "This party blows."
He glanced up at Peggy, making his usual survey of sartorial choices - tonight, people's outfits were turning out to be the best part, which was a dismal statement of the way the evening was going. He sighed, sucked down the last of that disappointing purple, and set the glass on an already-loaded tray in the hands of a passing member of the kitchen staff. "At least we look good. I'm thinking of bailing soon - this isn't my show, anyway." Usually he'd have been out there doing his best to make it his, or at least provide a few moments memorable enough that people would drop his name into conversation over the breakfast buffet, but he was in no mood. "The poor bastards from District 3 will have to stick around all night, but that's not my problem. Or yours, hey - the perks of coming up short."
He supposed it was possible District 8 would be a hot topic of conversation in some circle, but he seriously doubted this crowd would want to bring up in polite company - and Tony was completely of the same mind. Pretending it hadn't happened at all suited him just fine, and while he'd have preferred to do that while pleasantly drunk and chatting people up in hopes of more than just scavenging their half-finished cocktails, sometimes life dealt you a thoroughly mediocre hand. He did his best to cope.