Peyton fumbled through Dean’s box of cassette tapes, muttering under her breath as she fingered the labels.
“Speak, woman,” Dean said, glancing at her. “What’s your problem? You‘ve been mumbling and grumbling to yourself for the past ten minutes. What gives?”
“Your cassette collection, Dean. It leaves much to be desired,” Peyton whined. She liked the গিটার rock just as much as he did. But she also liked variety. Preferred it, actually. And Dean’s collection did not embody variety. Didn’t even so much as hint at it.