Pansy looked up from her glass of wine. She hadn't really been drinking it, just staring at it, tracing her finger along the rim. She glanced over at the man speaking at her, eyes slowly trailing along his less-than-impressive suit choice, then to the glass in his hand, then to his face, which she had absolutely no recollection of. Pansy simply stared at him, wondering what on earth had possessed him to bother her.
"What a moronic question," she said with a small roll of her eyes as she brought her glass up to her lips (a nude lip, because only slags wore red with red). "All of them, obviously."
She considered him again, arching an eyebrow. "Who are you, exactly?"