Katniss' POV
Two lacy blouses, five pairs of bloomers and nine scarves later, I finally throw my hair up into a casual bun and break out the strappy heels to see Haymitch. He's invited a few friends over, and insisted that I join them for drinks.
In the living room, seated around the coffee table are an odd assortment of people, an eclectic bunch from various districts. One man introduces himself as Roper—very District 12 in terms of grey-colored eyes and dark, stringy hair. He's dressed in casual pants and a tee shirt and I can't help but note that he doesn't look nearly as attractive as Haymitch does in wrinkled slacks and a dress shirt unbuttoned two buttons and rolled up to his elbows.
Another person introduces herself as Natalie, another as Claudius, and so on. All the while, as these new found—or perhaps not so newly found—friends introduce themselves, converse with me, laugh and smile and present jokes and anecdotes for my amusement, I can feel Haymitch's eyes watching me, gauging my reaction. Every now and then, I cannot resist a glance in his direction and he gives me that same, familiar, reassuring look that became my lifeline three years ago. The look that kept me alive.
The afternoon has melted into evening, and the gargantuan bowl of tortilla chips—once accompanied by the ever-depleting ration of salsa that Haymitch provided for each of his guests—has run its course.
"Who wants more chips?" asks Haymitch, a coy smile playing about his lips. Almost subconsciously, the sheer attractiveness of Haymitch is reaffirmed in my mind and I feel a bit sheepish but happy to be honest with myself. He grabs the bowl of chips and heads off to the kitchen to replenish the culinary supply.
"Here, I'll take this guys," I offer abruptly, gathering up tiny bowls of salsa in attempt to get some proper time alone with Haymitch. The invitation to Peeta's dinner party hangs over me like a burial shroud. I hear a couple of snickers. Roper only gives me a small, sad smile. I can't help but feel unnerved, ashamed, odd as I walk into the kitchen after him, making a point of creating noise—but not enough to be considered ostentatious—so as not to scare Haymitch. To be quite frank – although these incidents have occurred less frequently as of late—there's nothing more terrifying than Haymitch wielding a knife… Which is why I followed the man with the liquor into his kitchen.
And with the liquor he is. I'm not so silent as to go unnoticed; rather, he simply does not acknowledge me as he downs the contents of a silvery, floral flask of what is undoubtedly alcohol. Haymitch wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before turning to face me. His expression is slightly apprehensive, tainted with regret. He leans against the granite countertop, surveying me.