"Jeez, what is that sound?" she asked from the couch. "It sounds like a clarinet. Or a cat dying. Or a dying cat playing the clarinet."
The man closed the wooden box that kept his song safe and placed the box back on the shelf. "Probably just the neighbor's kid. I think he started taking lessons," he said. "Listen, I'm sorry to have to call it an early night, but I've got this presentation at work tomorrow...." He wiped his hands on the front of his shirt, leaving streaks of dust across the fine-gauge cotton blend, no longer worried about how he looked.
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