two of a perfect pair
"I remember once we were playin' what I like to call the bizarre Bizet - that's the Symphony in C - an' a draft from behind the shell kept turnin' my pages back. But it didn't matter a whit, and do ye know why?"
"Because you had it all memorized?" Fiona guesses mischievously, more than willing to hand the old man plenty of extradiligent credit he doesn't deserve.
"No, because it all repeats!" Triton's laughter is explosive, his case tipping up onto one side of the bell as his free hand, the one not attached to the forearm hanging over the case, lists forward to bump Fiona's forearm with its back. You're here - I'm here! Hello, and thank you, by the way.
Fiona frowns. "Isn't that the same? Or, no, I suppose it's not..."
She does want to laugh along in pure indulgence, because it is funny, and just generally joyful, but something else is bothering her.
Oh, that's right - rather, that's what's wrong!
"But wait a moment, I thought that symphony didn't have any trombones. Certainly not any bass trombones."
Triton grins leerily down at her. "That's right, it doesn't. I was playin' a proper horn, then."
His mustache and beard form a judicious enough ring around his lips that Fiona could see allowing for a horn mouthpiece. If she'd ever thought about it before, she'd realize that Triton's current collection of facial hair should actually make it pretty difficult for him to play something as big as a bass trombone!
"What happened?" she presses. "How come you don't still play horn now?"
"Oh, well." He gives that stupid yet endearing giggle. "I sort of...forgot my embouchure, is the thing."
"...forgot?"
"That's right." The friendly hand pokes at her shoulder, now. "Plumb forgot. But it's alright, they still keep me on. I mean, obviously I'm a horn player. Ain't that right, Crys? Or should I be-" Triton raises playful fingers in front of him along an invisible silver cylinder "-a flute? Bass flute, how about!"
Crys cringes. Fiona thinks he'd be blushing, if his cheeks ever colored hardly at all.
Before she can make further comment on the topic of instrument choice, or bring up her own past forays with flute, or just tell Triton to get new jokes, Gray passes by, doing what for anyone else would be an aggrieved lugging of their instrument in astonishing silence.
"Sunshine! Good evenin' to ye!"
The wheel on Gray's case makes a low, defiant squeak.
"He likes me," Triton whispers (at least, he thinks it's a whisper) to Fiona. She just nods, half obedient and half placating.
"Don't let this buffoon sweet-talk you too much. You carpool with him once, you'll never get called again."
Hands on hips, Fiona readies her reply. "Well, we got here before you, didn't we?" In separate cars, or not.
Gray groans, but the wheel squeaks again to cover it.
"Well, little one, what do ye feel like playing tonight?" Triton asks, turning to face Fiona again (though usually he just looms, monolithic, and she leans up to look at him).
"Well, how about the Symphony in C? At letter 'Arrr'!"
Triton gives her a dour look.
"I know, I know," Fiona says, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. "I hate that joke too."