Presley doesn't need to look to guess how upset the store clerk is. No doubt something akin to the way his relatives stare at him whenever he visits Ithaca with his mother, like they're keeping track of where they'll need to disinfect afterwards. Presley takes on the most judgmental-looking sneer he can manage as he glances at the clerk, then turns away again, with a dismissive eye-roll.

His hand slips out of his pocket, and moves to catch the dangling end of the scarf in his palm. He feels it with his thumb, carefully, like he doesn't want to make any more contact with this bougie scarf than he has already. Winter's right. It's very soft. "I've seen nicer," Presley declares, not bothering to whisper.