"There's a whole shelf of bottles over there," Toffee said. "I'm just sniffing about to see if there's anything interesting. And there is. The janitor has strong tastes. Irish whiskey, I should judge, by the jolt of it. Have some?"
Marc paused, took note of the new vapors overriding those of the cleaning fluids.
"Well," he said, "it is a little drafty in this nightgown."
Toffee handed him the bottle in the darkness. "Bottoms," she said pleasantly.
"The expression," Marc said sedately, "is bottoms up."
"Up or down," Toffee said, "it doesn't matter. I was just tossing in bottoms at random. Assorted bottoms, so to speak. If you prefer them up, you'll get no argument out of me."
There was a smacking sound as Marc lowered the bottle from his lips. "Let's just skip the bottoms," he said, "and go on to something else."
"Sounds pretty giddy," Toffee mused, "all this leaping about over bottoms. However...."
"Look outside," Marc suggested wearily, "and see if they're still out there."