Mr. Wing frowned. The boy was disrespectful, but at least he knew he didn't belong here and clearly would rather have been anywhere than come in. The girl, on the other hand, was treating his work--his art!--as a collection of pretty boxes and curios. At least he didn't pretend to be "more cultured," or however his girlfriend would phrase it--and in that, at least, there was some sort of appreciation.
He eyed the young man just outside the store again.
"I really am sorry--" Leeann began again, but the old man waved it away with a smile and a laugh.
"Is nothing, is nothing," He said. "Here." He pressed a small box into her hand, its wooden surface smooth and crimson-lacquered with golden characters scribed along each side in striking calligraphy.
"Oh, that's precious!" The woman said, with all the awe and wonder with which she might gush over a cheap manekineko figurine--damned foreigners couldn't even tell proper chinese work from Japanese--and gently turned it over.
"You take it!" Said the Ointment seller, nodding authoritatively. "Ointment inside good for hands. You like, you come back, get more."
"Thank you!" Leeann said, looking over her new prize and trying to figure out where it opened, like some puzzle box. She idly walked toward the door, while Mr. Wing returned to the back of the store, not expecting to see either of them ever again.