social obligations

Randall chuckles companionably at Dana's suggestion of prescience. "Well, it would certainly add to your business success," he observes. "Though I would imagine you would have simply played the market if that were your particular gift. What is it? Changing eye colors? It doesn't affect your vision, does it? Like a colored light filter?" His tone is light; he clearly does not expect an affirmative. His eyes shift back from the cubist portrait they have been contemplating back to Dana. Shaw prowls between two clusters of patrons, disdaining both groups in favor of pinning down a passing waiter -- more specifically, his tray. Flute freshly and firmly in hand, he pauses to sample the bubbly, grimaces, and hands the glass back to the man. "Better luck next time," he mutters. "Avoid the Californian vintages, for God's sake." Then a pair of prominent bankers are bearing down on /him,/ to drag him away in tuxedo'd desperation into the rapid-fire hell of money talk around a freeform statue near Dana and Randall. "Not at all," Dana replies. "If it did, this art exhibit might be considerably more interesting." In fact, as she speaks, her eye color, which began as a neutral beige, is warming to a evening-sky blue. "But no, if anything, it could be a disadvantage; the color shifts seem quite consistent across emotions. I may have to continue wearing contacts for business negotiations, to maintain equality." Her eyes track Shaw as he is dragged past them. "Is that Sebastian Shaw?" she asks with faint interest. Shaw is, point of fact. He stands stolid, arms folded and head cocked, as he listens to the bankers chatter with visible agitation. They glance frequently at each other, the little nods and looks that speak of partnership and of concern, and the wider of the two, in the better formalwear, gestures expansively and sharply in emphasis to their low monologue. For monologue it is: their audience is only that, passively absorbing, switching black-eyed attention from one speaker to the other as they toss the verbal ball back and forth. Only listening, not even nodding or shaking his head, and his expression is quiet, graven, masked. For all of his sipping at his sparkling white wine, Randall does not seem to be lowering the level of his drink quickly. "Mmmm," he agrees with Dana. "I confess, I tend to best enjoy watching the people in these crowds. A little light socialization, then watching the crowds mingle.

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