Wolfgang jumps and drops the pestle. It's made of stone, so it doesn't break, just clatters over the counter and rolls over the side. They turn then, their hands empty but held open and slightly away from themself.
They look better, in some ways — cleaner, wearing clothes that don't look like they'll fall apart, slightly more un-unkempt (can you just be kempt?) — and worse in others. Tired. Dark circles under the eyes. Skinny spider-hands. Very pale, despite New York being in the midst of the worst of the summer's grip. Like they haven't slept in a month. They might not have.
It takes a moment to place a voice with a face with a name, and then it comes to them — right, the guy from the park. The one with the eyes.
“Oh,” they say, glancing side to side like they're expecting to get punked. As if it's totally weird that someone they knew was a mutant would be in the mutant district. “Hello.” Cue an awkward pause where someone more socially skilled would have something to say.