The dance played on. Trish's mauve dress swished with each small movement she made, adding a rustling undertone to the music that Mista decided he very much liked, especially when the song changed into something with sort of a tango beat. With no one else looking - Narancia drowning in the punch bowl, Abbacchio and Bucciarati dancing themselves, and Giorno and Fugo sitting by the wall trying desperately to avoid having to dance - he felt confident enough to swing Trish into a dip, lowering her halfway to the floor.
When they swung back up, she was looking straight into his eyes, with a sort of mystefied gaze. His heart jumped, just a little, at the wideness of her eyes.
"I wouldn't hold that rose in your teeth, if I were you," she said, deadpan. "Giorno made it from an ashtray."
