A man hands a CD to his son, a seventeen-year old. The man performs this task secretly hoping for an enthusiastic response. The exchange takes place on the day the man happens to come across that particular CD while browsing through the shelf. There's a song in that album, the second one, the man recalls his son had once said he liked. The thought strikes him at that very moment and as he passes the CD to his son he makes the handy yet casual remark that the track list contains that particular song. The man is silently proud from his attempt at shaping his son's musical taste. He even goes through a bit of trouble to conceal that silly pride.
The CD changed hands a while back, more than a week ago to be precise. The kid showed an initial burst of genuine interest but it seemed gone as fast as it came. The CD was soon left on the bedside table, where it has remained ever since, its location utterly unaltered. The man is by now convinced a thin film of dust has started to cover the case. He does not dare to check. The embarrassing realisation that the CD had undergone an altogether different fate had it been lent to his son by anyone of his teenage friends is kind of a bitter pill to swallow.
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