"Eels, maybe."

For a given value of unusual. Clark has his hand positioned with perfect form, having patted the ray after it skated by under Bruce's fingers. The few seconds of silence feels part and parcel to this moment that he doesn't wonder too sharply after what Bruce is thinking about, save that he is always wondering a little what Bruce is thinking about. It's all meditative, like the concentric ripples from their contact with the water, colliding, cancelling one another out.

Clark lifts his hand, lets water drip off his fingers, disinclined to startle anything by shaking it dry. "Frogs and minnows. Things that wanna be left alone, probably."

But stingrays are friendly. He will probably google 'do stringrays like being petted' in the Mercedes-Benz, later. He catches eye contact with a college-age aquarium employee lingering nearby at an adjacent touch tank bank to make sure no one is fucking with the fish, including the two huge gentlemen over here, and so Clark projects a disarming smile in their direction. They smile back.

Bruce may want to do something lest he find himself standing by while Clark strikes up friendly conversation with a marine biology major.