Whirling around, the second half of a triple-dipped tortilla chip in your hand -- what can you say? That bean dip is addictive. -- you smile at the woman, looking her up and down.

"My, my," you murmur. "What have we here?"

Your eyes drift downward, then up again to eyes that likely sparkle in the pale moonlight. The devil would surely pause his dancing to get lost in that bewitching light.

"Nice shoes."