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Well, the trympod was still holed up somewhere, wherever he had taken himself off to. And probably sulking too. He thought she should always think of him and treat him as if he was Mr. Wonderful. He could certainly think that if he wanted to—it was a free world after all, as those two-leggeds like to say. Haha, that’s funny, they say it a lot, but they certainly don’t act like they believe it’s true. But that’s another story. Anyway, the trympod could think what he wanted, she was not going to call a spade a— a mouse, no matter how much he thought she should. He had the biggest ego she had ever seen anywhere, in people, in animals, in instruments—and believe her, there were a lot of big egos among instruments—and she was not going to go for that. His ego did not need building, that was one thing she knew for sure.
She sighed, wondering if she should go after him and let him know lunch was ready and waiting for him. No, she thought, let him sulk as long as he wants to. I was right and he was wrong and that’s all there is to it. He can’t have everything his way. And lunch will keep, salads and fruits and toast with mandarin-peach marmalade on top of margarine. Becel, of course, the low fat version.
That was another bone of contention, of course. That she used Becel and in general, low fat versions of foods as much as possible in making their meals. He had argued that he was down to skin and bone and had no energy for blowing any more. Which today’s little snit certainly put the lie to. But she had talked to him about his heart, and poked fingers into the little gut he had.
Well, it’s just little, he had said, and I’m young—nothing is going to happen to any heart when it’s my age.
It’s little now, she had countered, but you didn’t have even a little one two years ago, and who’s to say that now you’ve started on one that it won’t be bigger in another two years and that it won’t balloon when you get to be middle-aged? Look at the buffoon, for example—
Bassoon, he had corrected her. He was into using what he called correct language. She guessed it could only be expected, him growing up in the Bronx as he had, and being ridiculed from left to centre when he went off to Julliard to study voice—his voice, that is. Trympod voice. Funny that humans thought voice refers only to theirs. Well, it’s their collective ego, of course, it’s bigger even than the trympod’s.
She finished up her skim milk, got up from the table, and put the glass and her salad plate into the dishwasher. The trympod was just going to have to do those things for himself if he ever came out of his sulk and if he ever ate his lunch. She was done with doing for him. She didn’t care if he sulked for ever, really. And if he continued to grow that gut—she hadn’t told him this yet, but she was in a mind too, especially after today’s performance—if his gut got much bigger she was going to cast her eyes elsewhere, and who could blame her? Look at that slim claret for example. Clarinet, the trympod would have corrected her if he’d been here to hear her thoughts. She just knew the claret wouldn’t be caught dead with a gut. Not ever. Not in a million years. And really he had a much sexier voice too, come to think of it. Not as sexy as the sexaphone, of course, there could be no argument there, but she thought and her parents and all the elders had always warned against that sort of smoothness in a person—er, instrument. No good could ever come of a relationship with a sexaphone. First of all, it would be short, because that was a lifetime *bachel* if there ever was one—a smooth-talking, one-lining sex machine if there was one—an in and out of the sack and what did you say your name was and wham bam thank you ma’am sort of instrument. No, she was staying clear of the sexaphone, that was for sure.
She sighed again. For all she could go on in her mind about dumping the trympod and finding someone else, she wasn’t sure her heart and mind would ever agree on that. And she knew that in the end, it was always her heart that would win. But really, he could be such a trial. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was going into his middle-age crisis. Of course, she knew he was nowhere near old enough for it to be that. But she did think that it would not do to start catering to his ego too much. And she knew it wasn’t in her to tell him he was right and she was wrong when she knew for a fact that it was the other way around. So no, she wouldn’t go seek him out and cuddle him and make him feel better by massaging his massive ego boo-boo. That was the last thing he needed. And the last thing she needed too, not to mention the last thing their relationship needed. She knew that giving in to his every whim and temper tantrum would make her hard, render him more of a child, and send their relationship into a downward spiral very like that raspberry he had blown earlier. And once said relationship had started that downward spiral there would be no rescuing it. No band-aiding it up again. And then she really would have to start looking for someone new.
She closed the dishwasher—time enough to turn it on later—and went into the bathroom to gargle and brush her teeth. She was going back to the practice and he could show up if he wanted to or not as he pleased. She half hoped he would hear her sweet tones and be wooed by them into giving up his snit, but she wouldn’t count on it. The thing is, they could be so good together. They were so good together, when they were one, when they were not arguing, fighting, or when he was not off sulking somewhere. She gave her mouth an extra rinse to make sure she would be making the most dulcet sounds, ones that would be sure to entice him to come out.
Trumpet, he shouted.
It made her jump. She hadn’t heard him coming into the practice room where she had resumed her seat behind the music stand. She hadn’t even played a note yet, she’d just found her place in the music where they had left off when he had retreated in a huff.
She landed from her jump awkwardly, twisting her ankle a little, she thought, for when she stepped on it, it couldn’t take her weight and she crumpled onto the floor, her voice sounding a little note of distress. He was at her side in a moment. Come to think of it, that you could always rely on, that he would come to her rescue if she hurt herself. Maybe she should have thought of that earlier, he wouldn’t have stayed away so long. But no, she reminded herself, that was not her way, she didn’t believe in manipulating like that.
He helped her tenderly to her feet and into her chair, then kneeled in front of her and put his arms around her.
Are you all right? he asked. Shall we call it a day instead of continuing our practice?
No, no, she said, giving him a little kiss on his starting receding hairline. Thank you, dear, I’m fine, I’ll put a little ice on the ankle later but I’m okay to practice, just sitting here, no weight on it at all.
She beamed on him. Really, he was such a dear. Shall we continue then?
Let’s roll, he said, and blew the note exactly right that had been off before and that had been the cause of his going off in a sulk.
It was exactly on, but she forbore to say so, she knew from experience that it was best just to let it go. She pursed her lips and blew her own voice, and the sweetness of their togetherness was obvious in the harmonious sounds that was the meld of their separate voices. Her own voice was soft and so sweet, almost too sweet, she reflected. It was really so much better when mixed with a little stridency. Nothing like a sweet and sour combination to get the taste buds going, or the juices flowing.
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