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He has never met an uglier wench, and she’s even sullen and unbearably stubborn. He must bother her. She deserves all the care he can give her, and he’s such a caring, lovely genie, sometimes a bit reckless when he's pissed off, like that beggar, Aladdin, has learnt in the blink of a couple of wishes.
You were a genie, the mirror says.
After a week, he still hasn’t get used to be a human. A beautiful one. The most beautiful one. Golden hair, green sparkling eyes, high cheekbones, nice jaw and a killing smile. If perfection has ever had a name, then it’s his name.
The problem is that he hasn’t a name. Not a true one. Jinni, genius, génie, genio, genie, they’ve been calling him, for thousand and thousand years, with their stunned, greedy voices - and all those wishes. Every time the same, old story. Gold, sex and rock-and-roll, a lot of rock-and-roll, just a few decades ago.
Only the wench is such stupid and such pig-headed to have refused any comfort. All his efforts, his talents, thrown in the trash can, along with the lamp.
No - her favorite word. A mountain of diamonds? No. A Lamborghini? No. A new face without all those freckles, that embarrassing nose and that crowd of even more embarrassing teeth? No. Such a waste. He is - he was - so skilled in this, just ask Cleopatra, Simonetta Vespucci, or Greta Garbo, or their ghost, to be precise. Humans live a short life, and can’t fly.
Fuck. He can’t fly, no more, thanks to a wench who enjoys keeping all her ugliness intact as if it were the symbol of her good sense, and integrity. He strongly suspects she’s even virgin. He is, actually. His body is really new, brand new.
“Wench! I have a problem.”
“Another?”, she seems tired. Jumping on her bed in the middle of the night has been funny, and it has worked well.
“This is a very big issue. I’m virgin.”
She blushes. Her pale eyelashes flutter and flutter, and her eyes wander everywhere, only to land on one of his shoulder. They’re so damn' blue in that sea of red skin and crimson dots. A blue he has never seen before, in all his millennial life.
“It’s not a problem, in truth. You shouldn’t live it like a problem,” her voice is soft, and nice. She’s trying to deceive him, clearly.
“And what about my name? I have no name.”
“You’re free. You can choose the one you like the most. You can choose to be whatever you want.”
Whatever he wants.
She’s slipping away from his claws, with the excuse that he needs to think about that stupid name. She can’t, because... she can't. She mustn't. He pulls her into his arms, and she squirms. “I got it, wench. Jaime. My name is Jaime. Do you like it?”
“I do. Jaime is really a great name”, she bleats, like a sheep, a very tall and annoying one, trying to push him away, gingerly. Her big hands can be very gentle. “Now, let me go, please. This is not how normal people behave.”
"I'm not normal people. I'm Jaime, and there's no genie like me."
"You're no more a genie." The more she struggles, the more he tightens his hold.
"Ok, Miss Finicky. Then, there are no men like me. Only me, and I've another problem. I’ve never kissed a wench.”
His lips find hers, before she can even dare to complain - the boring, sweet tasting, freak – and it’s like flying again.