[He wasn't wearing dancing shoes. Most of Saint's shoes were old and the leather was creased and greying from use. They were comfortable and Saint wore things until they were incapable of performing the function they were made for or sometimes long after. He wasn't red-dress anything, but he wore a shirt that looked like it had been purchased at some point in (relatively) recent months and a heather-green sweater over very ancient jeans. He took a series of pictures very carefully and with thought whilst collecting Evie and the first bar had been a series of drinks and a series of increasingly liquid questions that scudded into one another, from the mundane to the moderately tipsy.
Now he was leaning (possibly looming, he had little extra height to facilitate a good loom but he was taller than Evie, which was an interesting if novel experience) and the grin was easy and uninhibited. Saint relaxed the way most people who are extremely introspective relax, with the quiet ease of sliding into a warm bath.]
That one. [He was pointing to a woman across the room who was oblivious to being noticed. She was consuming a vast, bright blue cocktail that looked both sticky and dangerous.] Definitely that one.