'Nor do I expect it to,' Emet-Selch says, and Gen gives a quick click of the tongue as he looks over the rest of the crowd loitering about and waiting for their chance to request whatever memory it is they had in mind. He'd been hoping that Emet-Selch might give him some indication of when things got quieter around here, when he could request something in relative privacy, but that doesn't seem like it's going to happen.

Which means it's time to consider how badly he wants to -- or if he even wants to revisit any memories of his. Brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, he takes another sip of his drink as he thinks -- and looks over with a scowl at the teasing. The bottle pulls away from his lips so hurriedly there's an audible pop.

"Gimme a break. Do I look like the type to do sappy shit like that?" Probably not. Gen knows what he looks like, and knows what his (well-earned) reputation had been back home; he'd never seemed the faithful or romantic sort, and he wouldn't have claimed to be the type, anyway. He huffs before giving Emet-Selch a lop-sided smirk. "Didn't take you to be that much of a romantic, though. D'you actually think everyone has someone like that?"

Gen's delivery is convincing enough, but the lady doth protest too much, as the saying goes. And a sharp eye might notice the way Gen briefly touches the back of his wrist to his chest, where the fabric of his shirt is stretched against an object hanging there, like he's making sure he hasn't lost it.