[ There's a faint laugh, just the breath of it through his nose--at least he hadn't gone outright and said it, though he sort of appreciates how brazen this guy is. At least he calls it like he sees it: though if they get shooed away from this stall for being rude, there's still a couple others they can browse, and he's already gotten paid for his previous job anyway.

The cliche, of course, makes his nose wrinkle; he drops his hand away, reaching instead for a scarf that's drenched in intricate gold and glittery accent, feeling the fringed edge of it with gloved fingertips. ]

Something small, then? To wear under your shirt. Tucked into a pointless pocket or something.

[ He's finding it amusing, at least: the thought of buying some stranger an ugly handkerchief-sized scarf to tuck amongst his person; he isn't even sure if the two of them will ever see each other again. ]

...You've got sixty seconds. Pick something out for me, I've got my eye on what I want for you.

[ --which is to say, his hand is idling, running down along the display that's on the table in front of them, rifling neatly through options like he's picking out a greeting card, as though he knows exactly what he's looking for. He doesn't. ]