The Genie in the Bottle

I don’t want to let the genie out of the bottle. God knows I’ve spent decades ensuring he didn’t get out.

But one night it happens. Somewhere between John’s awkward hello kiss, his gentle blue eyes and the Caesar salad, I pull the cork out. No, I don’t just pull it out; I fling that cork clear across the room, ensuring the bottle can’t be stopped up again.

The genie and I are old friends and he has waited patiently for so long to be let out. Now he’s going to savour this victory. He sees the look of sheer panic on my face and smiles a knowing smile. It’s getting really warm in the room, is it the Zinfandel, a hot flash or is it the genie?

Suddenly I’m back in the 9th grade, when a crush had me following a boy named Peter around like a puppy. Yet this is different, or maybe I’m different, it’s hard to tell which. Unlike then, I’m not feeling like I’m about to be sick to my stomach. This feels comfortable, warm and utterly terrifying.

Six hours fly by. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath the whole time. Then as I drive home, alone with my thoughts, the genie sits triumphantly on the dashboard of my car with his Cheshire grin. As I close my eyes I hear him whisper, “Come on, you know the drill. Your wish is my command!”