He walked toward her door. Then away from it again, the little catty-cornered square of paper crinkling between his fingers as he did so. This was weird. No one made mix tapes anymore. No one made mix tapes for girls with whom they had only had one panic-fueled conversation about the merits of Radiohead over plastic trays piled with cafeteria falafel. In particular, no one took the time to carefully outline each track and its relative significance, conscientiously noting which of them would be especially important based on that one conversation from earlier.
As he looked back down at one exposed half-moon sliver of silver polycarbonate peeking out of its paper nestle he realized that the twisted Sharpie scrawl across its face was smudged.
He looked at the hand-scribbled annotations again, a perfect monument of overthought and unnecessary attention, both of which being crimes punishable by highest scorn among his apathetic, acne-ridden peers. One more awkward roundabout of fevered footwork brought the boy front and center, firmly planted on the stoop of the debatably soon-to-be-mixtaped object of his musical pains. He stood on the spot, waiting for all of the half-formed impulses buzzing behind his eyes to come to some semblance of a decisive consensus. The two clearest directives, one being to slip the disc under the door and the other being to run away, were both heard and processed more or less simultaneously. The results were these: one, a slightly bruised shin, and two, the disc making a permanent departure from the realm of the nervous boy’s control and into the land beyond the door.
The boy didn’t know how he felt about this.