Her touch was light, and not entirely uncomfortable. Honestly, the majority of any discomfort came directly from the throbbing finger -- but that was nothing that she'd caused. Apparently, not even a place like New York was completely free of the kindness of strangers. Gus nodded. The cool plastic jug felt good on his finger. Maybe it wouldn't stop the pain, but it would numb it a bit, long enough to forget about it. Silently, Gus let out a mental sigh of relief that he'd already accomplished his painting for the evening. The burn was on his trigger finger, which probably would making spraying difficult.
"It's not a bad job. I'm my own boss, so that's a plus. I took over the family business when my dad retired a few years ago." God, and here he was, having practically sold an image of himself as a respectable businessman, when the damned paint cans clattered. He had two options: play it off like he hadn't been up to anything suspicious, or own up to it. Something inside him hinted that denying it would make him come across as a crazed, jittery lunatic. That wasn't entirely necessary.
Straightening up, he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone else was within sight, a sly grin crept over his face. Gus flipped open the flap of his bag, revealing several paint cans -- a few greens, silver, and blue. "That's for extra-curricular activities, he said, hoping he hadn't made a mistake in showing her what he carried.