Coming along to the shop was a stupid mistake. He doesn't have need of any clothing--he's told that the human illusion, on top of the boon of actually looking like his true face, comes fully dressed (no one's been able to quite describe the clothing to him--anyone who looks at him just sees him wearing something nondescript enough not to catch particular notice or stick in their memory). And what more is there? He's lived three hundred years without buying anything, and he honestly doesn't know what he'll do with the money he has now. For all his observation of the people around him as the decades dragged by, this is one area he hasn't kept up on.

Which is why he'd been curious enough to tag along. He's become something of a people-watcher in his long life, and most stores would chase out a stray cat, or worse, call animal control. This is a new opportunity to see how normal people live their lives.

Right now he's definitely not looking normal himself. It's disconcerting being constantly acknowledged--or rather, a point about five feet above his head being acknowledged and addressed. Looking for a brief reprieve from the onslaught of unaccustomed social demand, he's slipped under the merchandise into the center of a round clothes rack. Normally that would be a perfectly serviceable hiding spot; he's a little addled right now and hasn't taken into account that it definitely looks like a teenage boy is sitting in wait under a bunch of dresses in the women's petites section--not a good look. At least one or two normal shoppers have noticed; unless someone more understanding intervenes, he's liable to get hauled out by security.