Year 13

Pieces of Tinsel

“Yesterday was painful, and I am so terribly ashamed! I cannot believe that my trust and judgement have been betrayed so completely. I thought I saw a gem in the muck, but it turns out only to be a piece of tinsel – reflective, cheap and easily bent out of shape. It has been difficult, my friend, to struggle through the wilds of this age and time without a single anchor to convince me of the consistency of the race. Excluding you, of course, darling companion! But one grows complacent, and takes such character as yours for granted. It has been a turbulent half-year, hasn’t it? I feel as though I should faint from the stretch of my nerves, but that would be silly, and as you know, I have the constitution of a horse.”
The one sitting beside her sighed, her striking face full of amusement. “You’ve always had a knack for the dramatic, Barthakur.”
The girl in question grinned. “Haven’t I? But it was a terrible tribulation of my temperament though, forgive the alliteration.”
“Your piece of tinsel is not worth discussing, or even thinking of, and you know it. You just want an excuse,” The other replied.
“An excuse for what, Panicker?” Barthakur asked, though she knew she was setting herself up for a trap.
“To talk uselessly, and give voice to all your wondrous half-penny musings,” Panicker replied, not unkindly, but with the teasing air of one who has risen above the situation and finds it looking mind-numbingly simple from above. “Never before has the term ‘a penny for your thoughts’ been more appropriate.”
Barthakur attempted to fake a scowl, but failed quite miserably. “You’ve got me there. But pieces of tinsel aside, you cannot say that Year 13 has been uneventful.”
“Au contraire, mon cherie!” Panicker declared gaily, and then stopped to frown. “I’m terrible at French. Ah, no matter! My point was, for one with a constitution as ironclad as yours, you sure do love to declaim your sorrows often. I’ve had more eventful baths than this glorious Year 13 of yours.”
The other clutched her chest in mocking outrage. With a strangled, tortured gasp, she exclaimed: “You do wound me so, oh fair fellow of mine! I take back all I said about your anchorly qualities. You are a knave, a charlatan, a blaspheming infidel! But even the worst sinner may be brought to confessional. Come with me, open your poor, depraved mind and let me take you on a walk through the events of my Year 13. We shall meander through the Valley of Winter Birth, to the Spelt Gardens where we met, and then sally forth through the Hills of Neus-Kool to end up in the Paradise of the Duke, from which we take our final rest at the Summer Glades, which is where our journey shall end.”
There was a grave silence as her friend contemplated the offer. The air weighed upon her mind, and all sounds seemed muffled on the journey to her ears. Finally, the air was rent, gently, by a solemn pledge.
“Woof,” said Panicker, and wagged her tail.