“Okay, you said you’re a what?”

“A genie,” he said, lowering his fork to his plate.
“Right,” I murmured. “So, genies are real. You are a genie. I get three wishes. Okay. What else? Do you live in a bottle?”
“No,” he said, sounding almost offended. “I live in an apartment.”
“Are you seriously telling me the truth about this?” I asked.
“I seriously am,” he replied. “I was also serious about stealing a fry.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, take the fries. Have as many as you want. But, I mean, you don’t look like a genie.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You mean I’m not blue and I don’t sound like Robin Williams?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said.
He grinned at me.
“Okay, fine, that’s what I meant. But I mean, look at that movie. Aladdin rubs the lamp, right, and it’s all fireworks and explosions, and out pops this genie, and you look at him and you go, ‘Oh, hey, look, it’s a genie.’ But you? You look… normal.”
“Except for when I disappear.”
“Well, yeah, except for that. But how do I know—“
“Try it,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Make a wish. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”