If that makes her smile a little wider, maybe it's only like just barely knowing where the reins of anything on this in. But in so many words, okay. It makes a flush of warmth get nebulously everywhere under the alcohol. She almost wants to just send off on it, and ask if he means the vodka, the pizza, or him. But she doesn't. For as much as her words stay zippy, she could forget them if she had to. Maybe even wants to.

"Are you trying to say this doesn't look like the breakfast of champions just waiting for tomorrow morning, or three or four am, to exist at it?"