Squalo notices the glance at the clock, though he won't decipher the fact it's getting marked anywhere. Maybe the man just lost the sense of time, engrossed in his scribbles, or maybe there's something else going on -- all in due time.

He sits on the bench with an air of grace and smug superiority like a queen taking the throne, tosses his hair over his shoulder and turns to show what he probably considers his better side, resting an arm on the table. To his credit, he stays sort of still, though just a few moments his fingers start half-inadvertly tapping against the table surface, and he's moving his foot up and down, too.

"I've never posed before," he shares conversationally, apparently not particularly minding whether Farrah actually speaks back to him or not. "How long does it usually take?"