Most days, "observant" would be a fair description, but ... not tonight. Tonight, Dustin can't quite bear to pay Lucy his full attention; instead, he glances at her sidelong, then reaches out to touch the cardboard figure that separates them from the rest of the world. Three, four fingers is enough to push it over, but his touch is delicate enough that nothing moves.

"I wouldn't call this 'plain sight,'" he murmurs. There's a beat, a half-second of blissful nothing before the room fills with the inappropriate sound of jaunty, Phil Collins horns. Dustin accepts the wine and takes a grateful swallow. Someone should probably cut him off.

He knows exactly what she's talking about. He just doesn't know what to say. There's hard, heavy feeling at the pit of his stomach: stone soup less satisfying than he'd initially expected. "I—" Dustin looks down at the bottle. "I'm not sure yet."