Though Cinderella may have been onto something with her midnight dash, it’s truly Vir and his knack for slipping out of a party at the fine hour of 10:12 PM that perfected the art of leaving social events. He used to be better - there was a time when he sat for hours in a room full of people, all eyes on him as he wove a story with his writer’s tongue - but there’s a certain vibe in these political events of condescension and elitism that Vir could choke on if he doesn’t come to the surface and breathe enough.
He stands outside while the party’s Halloween music plays softly in the background and leans against a balcony, vaguely aware of the fact that this is the White House and there’s the chance Bill Clinton got blown against this very railing. Though he’s not proud of it, he twiddles a Juul in his hands, scrutinizing it with a critical gaze. One of Zimmerman’s interns had lent it to him for the night when he explained how on edge he always gets during these parties, telling him to take a puff if he needs to calm his nerves. But now he’s here and he’s anxious and yet the thought of putting nicotine in his mouth is somehow making him even more so. “Okay, come on,” he mutters to himself. He puts the stick to his lips and presses to turn it on, sucking deeply in - then promptly coughing it out in undignified hacks. “What the fuck,” he says to himself. Or rather, he’s sure it’s to himself until he looks to his left and sees someone standing with him further down on the balcony. Though he’s not sure when they got there, Vir’s fairly sure they saw his little fit just then. “Sorry. I really don’t smoke, I just thought I’d try something new,” he says in lieu of an explanation. He reaches out the Juul in their direction. “You’re welcome to give it a try, though I gotta warn you, it’s got a distinct taste of burnt mangoes to it.”