She was a principal flautist with a green Kokopelli tattoo on her right ankle. He was a bassoonist, and a master woodworker recovering from an accident with a table saw that took the tips of two fingers. He was beginning to play again with considerable pain, having difficulty with fingering and flicking.
She did her best to console him during the long, lazy summer of his convalescing.
“You have the sweetest embouchure, you know,” she cooed in his ear. “Your harmonics, your circular breathing, your double tonguing — your flutter tonguing! — I am the luckiest flautist in the whole damn orchestra.”