A/N: In October, I asked readers of my LiveJournal to provide a sentence that I would use to begin a story. This story begins with the sentence provided by fantasyfan.
Frodo slumped in his seat and stared morosely into the bottom of his fifth pint. The only reason he knew it was the fifth was the Green Dragon had an unwritten rule that a hobbit could only have six pints before dinner. So when he'd gotten his last refill, he was reminded he had only one more, but he was welcome to continue this evening. And to think it wasn't yet teatime.
He heaved a sigh that almost sounded like a sob, and buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He hoped no one knew why he was here, drowning his sorrow . . . it was too embarrassing to bear.
Once he'd downed his sixth pint, he wandered outside, the brilliance of the setting sun almost unbearable to his eyes. He began the stumble home, but didn't get far before he got confused about which way he was supposed to be going, so he sat beside the Bywater Pool and dabbled his feet in it in hopes the chilly water would waken his mental faculties. Instead, he flopped onto his back in the long grass and stared unseeingly at the sky, sighing mournfully all the while.
He almost didn't recognize Sam's face when the other hobbit leaned over him and asked casually what he thought he was doing. Frodo blinked stupidly; he hadn't the foggiest idea. Sam hauled him to his feet and helped propel him forward toward home, commenting that he was in a fine state, and no mistake. Frodo mumbled something, but Sam didn't understand and asked him to say it again. "She said no!" he wailed miserably.
"Who said no to what?" Sam asked, thoroughly baffled.
"Primrose. I asked her to come to the Midsummer Dance with me, and she turned me down," he said with a piteous sigh. "What's wrong with me that makes everyone say no?"
"Sir, Miss Primrose is a-courting a lad from down by Frogmorton way, so I would figure she's already going to the dance with him," Sam said reasonably.
"Oh." That was a slightly reassuring thought. "So it's not me?"
"No, sir, I'd say not. What with you having a large hole and inheriting everything Mr. Bilbo owned, most ladyfolk consider you the most eligible hobbit in the farthing, perhaps even the whole Shire."
"I don't think I'd go that far," Frodo objected while Sam opened Bag End's front gate. "Evidently many of them don't share that opinion, since I still do not have someone to go with me to the dance."
"You have a knack for asking those as are already spoken for, is all," Sam reassured him. "What about Miss Daisy, now? She's not yet of age, but she's got a good head on her shoulders."
"Daisy? I haven't seen her in a long time . . . it's hard to think of her as anything but the little lass running around and scraping her knees. You think she'd say yes?"
"I think it's a possibility," Sam said cautiously.
Frodo halted with one foot in the foyer, then turned around and made to go back out the front gate. "Then I'll go ask her," he said, determined.
Sam grabbed one of his arms to stop him. "Not right now, you won't," he said. "Her parents aren't going to give their permission when you reek of ale and are still half off your head! Wait until tomorrow."
Frodo looked crestfallen, but nodded. "I suppose you're right, Sam. What would I do without you?"
"I couldn't rightly guess," Sam said modestly. "Have a good evening, sir."
"And you, as well," Frodo replied, both feet now safely on the tile of the foyer. "Wish me luck tomorrow."
"That I will," Sam promised, then tipped his hat and was gone. Frodo closed the door and leaned against it a moment, giving brief thought to finding a good bottle of wine to finish his evening, but dismissed it. He didn't want to be hungover any more than he already would be when he went to see Daisy tomorrow. He still wasn't fully recovered from Primrose's rejection, but there were still other lasses he hadn't asked, and Daisy sounded promising . . .