I think you'd get distracted first, [ is her surprisingly diplomatic reply, but he does at least manage to finagle the zipper up as needed, so she can't rib him too hard. yet.

instead, she turns; it's not quite a model spin, not quite as smooth as the swooshing skirt flare she'd done in the dressing room. it's ... shier, almost, a slow rotation on bare feet as she turns to face him. she's not totally sure what to do with her hands. his are in his pockets, but she doesn't have pockets — should she hold them outright, scarecrow style? rest them on her hips? let them dangle like the ends of spaghetti noodles from limp arms?

who knows, really. she just... doesn't know, so she shrugs a bit, and tries to play it off as a pseudo vanna white impression. ]

It's too late for you to tell me you hate it, for the record. The shop's already closed and they don't give refunds.