You have noticed him staring at you and know that it is only a matter of moments before he makes his way over. His tuxedo seems more crisp, the black more complete than the others’ in the ballroom. He is knowingly debonair and you find this deliciously enticing. His approach is interrupted by the couples waltzing to a full band of brass and string, but eventually he succeeds in pulling close to you. He smells of spiced tobacco and gin. You whet your palate with the Grasshopper you have been nursing for the past quarter hour. He smiles, so you smile. He speaks, his voice rich, its timber infused with the dash of liquor. Thirst quenched, you offer your attention with starving anticipation. 

“I noticed you’ve no man’s arm to hold onto, Miss.”

“How observant.”

“A shame, a stunning morsel should always be with an escort, I think.”

“You are sweet.”

“Would you happen to know when they’re planning to bring out dinner?”

“Soon.”

“Soon, but not yet, which leaves us time for at least one dance. Would you care to?”

“Certainly, Mr...”

“Simon. Please, call me Simon.”

“Certainly, Simon.” You smile graciously as he takes your drink and places it on a nearby table. He extends his hand, his face alight with pride and delight. 

“Might I ask who you might be?”

You accept his hand, opening your mouth wide, and swallow him whole.