Maybe the genie feels entirely at peace as he waits all day and all night in the lamp.
Slouched against the cool dark bronze with his feet stretched out in front of him, thinking, “I did it. I made her queen.” Even if he’s a little bored, he knows the score. She’ll either ask him to move mountains or she won’t. He might wait for years--or maybe this very hour he will fly through the air again, a palace in his palm.
Whatever happens, he belongs to her. She’s the queen of the world. She’s got two wishes left.
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