by Natasha Deen
He cocked his head, his expression cute and confused. “Like dessert?”
“How can a man who graduated Suma Cum Laude, and speaks five languages be so obtuse?”
The wrinkles of confusion deepened into fissures. “About what?”
She sighed. “I love you, Dillon.”
His face smoothed out, and the smile she lived and died for, brought the sun into his eyes. “Yeah. I love you, too.”
“No, I mean I really love you.”
He laughed, the sound full of relief, and tinged with a note of exasperation. “Yeah, and I love you too. Geez, you’re my best friend. There’s got to be love.” He cupped her face and kissed her forehead. “I’m going to finish dinner and then we’re going to talk about whatever’s bothering you.”
He moved back into the kitchen. Her eyes tracked his movements and her heart wept because it seemed her lot in life to watch him walk away from her. “Is it the freckles?”
He glanced back. “What?”
“The scrawny limbs—the small breasts? The not straight, not curly hair of mine?”
“Is that was this is about? You’re feeling insecure because you don’t have a boyfriend and I have a girlfriend?”
“No—”
“You’re fine just as you are, Aggie. And one day, you’ll make a man very happy.”
“I don’t want to make a man happy,” she said, desperation raising the pitch of her voice, “I want to make you happy.”
But he added the chicken as she spoke and the sizzling of food, drowned out her words. Too exhausted to put in the effort to yell at him, she turned and lay down on the couch. The sounds of water and his humming mixed with the aromatic smells of dinner. Her lids gained weight and before she knew it, sleep crept upon her and willingly, she let it lead her into a dream world where Dillon loved her.
****
When she awoke two hours later, the house lay in dark quiet. She struggled to her feet, went into the kitchen, and flipped on the light. Dillon had cleaned after himself, the way he always did, and the marble countertops gleamed under the pot-lights. A black plate, covered by an equally black bowl sat on the stove. She went towards it and saw the note lying on top: Aggie, you were sleeping, didn’t want to wake you. Let’s talk tomorrow. Added a special spice to rice, tell me what you think. D.
Chapter Two
She stuck the bowl in the microwave. As the rice heated, sending mouth-watering aroma of vegetables and spices drifting through the house, and she stared at the note in her hand, wishing he’d added “love” or “hope to see you soon.” The chime of the microwave pealed, ripping through fanciful imaginings and the reality of her life crashed to the ground.
Aggie grabbed a fork from drawer and fluffed the brown grains of rice. She took a bite. Parsley, basil, chicken, and vegetables melded together in a harmonious chord of delicate spices and colourful textures. The need to devour clashed with the desire to savour. Dillon didn’t have a talent for food; he possessed a genius for it. She ploughed through the bowl, figuring she’d take her time with the second helping. Metal scrapped against ceramic as she shovelled mouthful after decadent mouthful. Too soon, the black bowl stood empty.
Bare, like her heart.
Vacant, like the other side of her bed.
How many times would she continue to throw herself at him, only to be patted on the head and sent packing with the consolation prizes of friendship, fidelity, and fried rice? Her appetite evaporated. In its place, a bitter taste developed, strong with the vile, pungent tang of unrequited love and the astringent kick of a future sharing a mutual wall with a man who would never see her as anything but a buddy.
The walls closed in. The one she shared with Dillon seemed to grow until it loomed over her like a drywall sentry. Chicken and rice rolled in her stomach. She pushed away from the table and reached for a glass of water. Beyond the bay window, the darkness of night, usually a beacon to stay away, beckoned her with a lighthouse beam. It called her from the choppy waters of inner turmoil and closing walls, and into the safe harbour of the woods that lay beyond her backyard fence.
She flicked the tap back on, refilled the glass, and guzzled it. Aggie glanced at the microwave clock. Ten in the evening was late for a stroll, but if she didn’t get out of the house—even for a few minutes, the pounding of her heart would increase to fatal speeds. She dumped the glass into the dishwasher, raced to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time, and grabbed a fleece pullover. Adding a pair of sweatpants to the ensemble, she sped downstairs, shoved her feet into sneakers, and bolted for the open air.
The cool wind eased the clamminess and calmed some of the nausea. She strode through her backyard and out the rear gate into the woods. Like Lot’s wife, though, she couldn’t resist looking back.
The lights in Dillon’s house washed his windows with buttery yellow. His figure moved from the living room, where the television’s blue glow flickered, to the kitchen. He wore nothing but a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, and her fevered heart and soul etched every detail of his carved, taut body to memory. Her mouth went dry, her limbs felt weighty and light at the same time. She turned away, a new question now possessing her thoughts: did she follow the fatalistic leanings of love and remain his neighbour, or opt for common sense, and put as much geographical distance as possible, between them?
Her steps, heavy and plodding, took her into the tree cover. The rustling and chattering of racoons shivered the leaves, and twigs cracked under her steps. A soft wind tickled her hair, trailing it against her cheeks, as though Mother Nature sympathised with her plight, and offered a gentle, comforting touch.
Aggie kept her head down, her eyes on the lookout for the dark shadows of roots and stones. Thoughts and fears swirled with hopes and opinions. Whole notes and quarters, climbed the scales of her heart and mind, tripping over each other in a frantic tune. Consumed with Dillon, roots, and stones, she didn’t think to keep some of her focus for low branches until one reminded her of its presence with a sharp, hard, smack to her head.
Bright spots of blue, pink, and yellow sparked in her vision. Her eyes clenched against the throbbing in her temples, she rubbed her forehead with one hand. Though she kept telling her feet to stop walking, the branch’s uppercut seemed to have downed the connections between her brain and body. One step, two, eyes still shut, her foot caught in a tree root that sent her tumbling to the ground. She hit the earth with a sound thud, jarred teeth, and another thump to her head. A metallic clang joined the quartet of pain and indicated that she hadn’t tripped over a root, but someone’s discarded junk.
The thud and thump reconnected severed lines because her body—at her command—remained still and huddled under a tree. She massaged her ankle, forehead, and neck. After a few moments, the pain subsided from sharp to a dull throb. She pried her eyes to their fully open position, and began to search for the object of her near-destruction.
The dull glint of metal caught the moonlight filtering through the leaves. Moving slow and deliberate, she crawled along the dirt and twigs to pick up the offensive object. Night’s lamp hadn’t the wattage for a thorough investigation, but she felt the rounded, smooth contours of its shape and the rough, raised bumps of its design. A teapot or some type of knick-knack held the culpability for her twisted ankle and sore head. Aggie let go of the pot but it didn’t let go of her. She shook and flung it, trying to leave the object in the dirt, but the vase seemed to stick to her hands with the tenacity of rubber cement. Repulsed, she renewed her efforts to separate herself from the piece of trash. Still, it remained glued to her. Resigning herself to carrying someone’s junk home, and trying to remember if she had disinfectant in the medicine cabinet, she got to her feet and limped to her condo.
****
In the glow of the ambient light, the jar revealed itself to be a miniature Turkish teapot. Tarnished gold, with strange hieroglyphics and etchings lay buried among dirt and twigs. Instinct told her it was both old and precious. She turned the ornamen
t over, looking for a name or identifying mark, but couldn’t see anything for the mud. Carrying the pot to the sink, she turned on the water and began to rinse the debris. Whatever had caked the pot and her fingers, dissolved and broke apart like icing sugar.
Earth remained embedded in the cracks and grooves of the pot. She scrubbed at it. A pop, a hiss, and deep pink smoke began to pour out of the spout. Too shocked to drop the object, she stood rooted to the spot, wondering just how hard she’d knocked her head. The scent of figs, pears, and jasmine filled the air as the fuchsia fog poured out and surrounded her.
Survival instinct kicked in and doubt followed with a punt that knocked holes in her concussion theory. Frantically shaking the pot, she tried to rid herself of the object. Once again, the rubber cement came back and no amount of vibrating or warm water would release her from it.
The fog spanned out, then began to swirl into a funnel. Spinning and turning, it coiled into a miniature cyclone. Its speed should have created enough wind to whip the paper towels or ruffle the curtain hems, but the air remained eerily still and quiet. Fear dried her throat and adrenaline poured, lava-hot, into her veins. Slowly, she set it in the sink, careful not to jostle it. Since she couldn’t seem to free herself, she opted for stepping away as far as arm length would allow.
“Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought—maybe Dillon put some odd spice in the rice.” The fear in her voice reverberated along the tiled backsplash and echoed in the kitchen.
“Do not be afraid,” said a feminine, child-like voice from the cyclone.
Her heart leaped hard, fast, and intense, crashing against her ribs like a bird smacking into a window. “I’m hallucinating—” She glanced over at the door, debating whether to race next door and risk the humiliation of his laughter, or just drive herself to the hospital with the pot stuck to her hand. Of course, once she started telling the doctors the Turkish pot had spoken to her, the orderlies would leave rubber tread marks on the linoleum floor as they rushed her to the psychiatric ward. Dillon’s amusement was palatable in comparison.
“You’re not delusional—” an embarrassed laugh pre-empted the confident tone. “Can you do me a favour?”
“Um, sure.” Which was more insane, to hallucinate or to have the hallucination talk?
“I appear to be stuck—” The feminine voice dropped low with sheepishness.
“Stuck?” Surprise at her apparition’s plight momentarily blocked fear.
“Yes, can you reach in and pull me out?”
Dread screamed back to the forefront of her emotions, as fear crawled under her skin and rippled her heart. “P-pull you out?”
The cyclone swirled in silence, then, “Yes. I am stuck. Please pull me out.” The woman—if that’s what she was—repeated the words, slower and louder.
Aggie bristled. “I’m not deaf.”
“Then pull me out. I’m getting dizzy and sick.”
“What are you—what am I pulling out?”
“What—are you kidding me?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “A voice is speaking from a pot and you don’t know what I am? I’m a genie and I’m going to be a puking genie if you don’t help me. Soon.”
Okay. If this was her hallucination, it wasn’t going to hurt her—genies didn’t hurt people…did they? She tried to remember the plot line for Aladdin, but nothing came to mind.
“Hurry.” The plaintive, mewling tone ripped Aggie from her stasis.
She stepped towards the sink, stuck her free hand into the vortex. It had a talc feel, like snowflakes without the chill, and swirled around her hand in a balmy eddy. Her fingers prodded the air, touched something semi-tangible. The thing reached back, wrapped around her hand, and began to scale her.
The genie’s touch was soft yet solid. She padded up Aggie’s palm, light and quick, and as she emerged from the fog, she revealed herself to be a tiny, black cat—a kitten, really, about three months old. The tornado spun into itself, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared.
Aggie blinked. Hard. “I didn’t think genies could be animals.”
The genie heaved a long-suffering sigh and rubbed at her emerald-coloured eyes with a paw.
“I’m sorry—did I insult you?”
“No. Human ignorance is something all magical creatures must deal with. An animal can be a genie.”
“Shouldn’t you be in a lamp, not a pot?”
Another heavy sigh, another long-suffering feline look. “Anything that houses a genie is called a lamp, whether it’s a pot or jar—much the same way that a house can be a condo or an apartment.”
Aggie peered at the magical spirit, staring at her from one angle then the next. She was a cunning little thing, with too large ears, jewelled eyes that sparkled in a myriad of greens and lime colors, and sleek, black fur that shone with glossy tones. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
She ran her finger along its back. The genie purred and arched, her semi-transparent tail curled around Aggie’s hand.
“You feel…like cotton candy.”
“Is that good?”
“I love cotton candy. This is one hell of a hallucination. I’m really going to have to talk to Dillon about his spices.”
“It isn’t a hallucination,” she said, in her child-like voice. “I’m real.”
“Real,” Aggie repeated, her cynicism made her nose twitch.
The kitten pointed in her direction. A bolt of lightning fired from her paw and zapped Aggie on the arm.
“Ow!” Smoke, acrid wisps of grey and blue curled from the sleeve.
“Real enough for you?”
“You’re a testy, little genie, aren’t you?”
“You asked for proof.”
“I was hoping for a plate of chocolate or the appearance of a gorgeous half-naked man, not electrocution.” She rubbed the spot where the bolt had hit.
“I’m sorry; I was trying to make a flower.”
Aggie stared at the kitten. “Are you new at this?”
“No,” the genie sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Ebony.”
“You’re awfully cute, all paws, fur, and stomach.” Aggie scratched the cat’s forehead. “Hello, Ebony. How long have you been a genie?”
“Long, too long.”
“Give me a timeframe.”
“Since the ages of giants and gods, titans and fairies.”
“Oh, a long time.”
Ebony gave her a contemptuous look that only the feline species had mastered, and coupled with the fact that she was a magical cat, the expression was positively withering. She jumped to the floor and began to prowl the perimeter.
“Give me a break; I’m new at this whole magical thing.”
Ebony padded towards her and head butted her leg. “I’m sorry. This must be very strange for you.”
Aggie sat on the floor, her back against the fridge. “Are you hungry?”
“Genies don’t eat.”
“Tired?”
“Don’t get tired, either.” She leaped onto Aggie’s knees and perched. With her tiny face, large eyes, and even larger ears, she epitomized adorable.
“I can’t imagine spending a lifetime never being hungry or tired.”
“I wasn’t always a genie.”
Aggie frowned. “How did you become one?”
“It’s a long story.”
Of course.
“Thank you for freeing me. As a reward, I will grant you three wishes.”
“Oh.” She rubbed her cheek, thinking about the bolt of lightning. “I don’t really have any wishes.”
“Everyone has wishes. Only…” a note of warning crept into her voice.
“You’re loyal only to the one who possesses the lamp, and you can’t help in matters of love.”
“Yes, I’m servant to the owner of the lamp. As for the other, I don’t like to deal with love. Forcing the heart to care for someone it doesn’t…well, it’s led to some ugly stalki
ng incidents that I’d rather not relive.”
Ebony hopped to Aggie’s stomach, landing with kitten clumsiness. Like her feline ancestors before her, she tried to cover up her awkwardness with a casual lick of her paw and a disdainful swish of her tail.
“How can you be semi-transparent and still have weight?”
She shrugged. “How can your molecules be so far apart from each other and you still appear solid?”
Aggie had no answer for that.
“I should explain the ground rules. First, I can only come to you if you have possession of the lamp and rub it four times. You have to rub it—a swipe or a brush won’t work.”
“That’s very specific.”
Ebony shrugged—an action that disconcerted Aggie to see a cat do. “Back in the day of caravans and camels, there was a lot of jostling—a genie can’t keep popping in and out, asking, “What do you wish?” It also made for awkwardness in situations where possession of a genie was to be a secret.”
“Oh.” Aggie nodded, and unable to resist the allure of a kitten on her stomach, scratched Ebony behind the ears.
Her head tilted to the side, her eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A deep, low purr rumbled from her tummy. “About the wishes…” She opened her eyes and shook her head. “There’s something you need to know.”
“I only get three, right?”
“Beyond that.” Ebony took a deep breath, then stretched up to Aggie until their noses touched. “This lamp is cursed.”
“Cursed?” Her head jerked back and smashed against the fridge door. Wincing, she rubbed the throbbing lump.
“Blame Aladdin. He did it.”
“Are you going to eat me? Damn me to hell?”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “No, of course not.”
“How did he curse it?”
“All the wishes go wrong—the only wish that will ever work is “I wish to undo my last wish.””
“That’s a crummy deal. He got the princess and the castle and now, screw the rest of us?”
“The princess and the castle are precisely why he cursed the lamp.” Ebony sat on her haunches. “In later years, things went badly for him. His marriage came apart and the castle was in constant need of repair. He gained weight, lost his zest for life because if he needed anything done, he only had to wish for it. By the time he realized the error of his ways, it was too late. The princess had long died; the city went on without him.”
