Is it just Wendy's imagination, but is a sad trombone playing with each step the pair takes? She swears she can hear a desolate womp-womp accentuate every little step Lydia trollops behind her like some kind of cartoon character with a storm cloud following at their heels. Maybe it's just in the other girl's nature, something innately...pathetic that resides in her soul. Is that rude to say? Perhaps, but she is a believer that if it's the truth, it's not that rude, southern pleasantries be damned.
The stall is beautiful, filled with little blooms that definitely could not withstand whatever is happening with Lydia's hair -- really, she could bike out to Grampleton for a curl cream, or something -- and Wendy can't stop the defeated sigh that already threatens to leave her lips. What would sit in that mane of hair? Before she could even start to think of the impossible, she glances over to Lydia...only to see that sad, sad crown fall apart nearly the instant it touches the girl's hands. Womp-womp. There goes that damned trombone again. "Okay, so I'll be the one doing the touching," she states, only a mild irritation lacing her words. The patience of a saint, she has, and it's being tested by the Fish herself. Wendy picks up a crown, a base of hearty sunflowers with bright zinnias, and holds it out. Looks sturdy, but there's only one way to truly find out.
"Tilt your head towards me, Herring?"
She shuts her eyes for a few seconds, because she can already fathom the look on Wendy’s face. Annoyed, no doubt, with her already staunch aura of judgement nearing max levels, and Lydia’s about ready to start quaking like a chihuahua in the face of it…
Except, when she finally looks, Wendy doesn’t really seem mad. It’s more along the lines of pity than anything; a double-edged sword that has her stomach taking a flip or two. Sure, it doesn’t seem as if the other’s wrath is only a few seconds away from snapping loose, but Lydia thinks she’d almost prefer that to this. There’s a separate kind of scrutiny in pity.
Still, she swallows it down, especially after catching sight of the crown Wendy picks out, which is perfect. She bends forward and lowers her head, closing her eyes again. Almost a prayer, before her imagination gets the best of her— the image of Wendy dressed as a queen, holding out a bejeweled sword, sternly but proudly knighting Lydia for her fearless contributions to the kingdom. She smiles as if it’s real.
She opens her eyes. The crown hasn't fallen off or flown away or caught on fire yet. It actually seems to fit quite nicely. "Thank you," she says, the sincerity of it as tangible as the petals around them. "Y'picked me out a real special one too, huh?" She notes as she takes a gander in the mirror nailed to the side of the stall. "I owe you one, Wendy! Say, you got a favorite fish? Bet I can catch you somethin' good before the weekend's over!"











