“Is that so?” he asked. “I’d always thought the world was a wish-granting factory.”
“Turns out that is not the case,” I said. He was so beautiful. He reached for my hand but I shook my head.
“No,” I said quietly. “If we’re gonna hang out, it has to be, like, not that.”
“Okay,” he said. “Well, I have good news and bad news on the wish-granting front.” “Okay?” I said.
“The bad news is that we obviously can’t go to Amsterdam until you’re better.
The Genies will, however, work their famous magic when you’re well enough.”
“That’s the good news?” “No, the good news is that while you were sleeping, Peter Van Houten shared a bit more of his brilliant brain with us.”
He reached for my hand again, but this time to slip into it a heavily folded sheet of stationery on the letterhead of Peter Van Houten, Novelist Emeritus.
I didn’t read it until I got home, situated in my own huge and empty bed with no chance of medical interruption.
It took me forever to decode Van Houten’s sloped, scratchy script.
Dear Mr. Waters, I am in receipt of your electronic mail dated the 14th of April
and duly impressed by the Shakespearean complexity of your tragedy.
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