She looked at the badly wrapped rectangle and sent a silent prayer up above.
‘Oh God. Please don’t let it be a mixed tape’
“Go on open it”
She looked at his eager smile and sighed. It was a mixed tape. Not a CD compilation. Not a pre-programmed Ipod. But a mixed tape. Had she woken up in the 80s?
Her dating life was littered with Mixed Tape deaths. She could forgive poor perfume choices (except Charlie. Never Charlie) and tacky crotchless underwear, but Mixed Tapes were the death knell of almost every relationship she had ever been in. Cindi Lauper followed by Sinatra and Def Leppard. Toni Braxton and Celine Dion. One had even put in Timmy Mallet’s version of Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini. That wasn’t even a love song. Oh God. And then there was always the murmured request as they took each other clothes off later in the evening “Why don’t you play that tape I got you?” She had once made love to I Hate Everything About You. An attempt at humour she had not appreciated.
But there was nothing she could do about this one. She was stuck for life. Divorce on the grounds of incompatible musical tastes?
Maybe it would be a great tape. Yes. Of course. They were compatible in every other way. Why not music? She smiled, ripping the paper apart with new found hope.
“I hope you liked New Kids on the Block growing up.”