He wishes he was somewhere else; leaning on the kitchen countertop, he watches the party from behind dark-tinted lenses. Revelry is a spectator sport.
He doesn't do small talk. Or long, drawn-out speeches. Mostly, he doesn't talk at all. Maybe the silence makes him interesting. He shrugs to himself.
Someone has dropped a cigarette butt in his drink. Probably the short bleach-blonde with the neon pink shoes. He tips it away, pours another glass of something smooth. Across the room, a woman in an over-stretched, sequin dress is grinding her ass against a man in a novelty sombrero. He sips his drink.
Man, he wishes he was somewhere else...