J is for Jinni
Introduction to “J is for Jinni”
This was the first ‘long-ish’ story I wrote, and (when it was done) the first flicker of hope that I could maybe actually do a whole ‘alphabet.’
When you’re starting to write, they tell you to “write what you know.” So I made a list of all the things I “knew,” and it was discouragingly short. And so I wrote a story about an insecure writer, ‘cause, well, you know…
The ideas of motivation, and promise, and expectation, have all been in the front of my mind since I started this project. Why am I doing this? Do I expect it to succeed? Will anyone read it? Would it be easier if I had solid answers to any of those questions?
And so, a story about a writer who meets a genie. What would he wish for? What was I wishing for? And in the end, what difference would it make? Did I need a guaranteed end in order to begin the work?
By the end of the story, I had my answer.
So this was written mostly for me. But now it’s yours.
The Beginning
Paul sat down to write, late on Christmas Eve. It didn’t go well.
Christmas Eve itself had gone well; oh yes, well indeed. Good food, good family time; opening just a few presents...and then all of the presents in a mad materialistic frenzy (he was too lazy to be anything other than a permissive parent; his wife had learned to compensate accordingly). But now the family had all gone to bed, and he was slightly buzzed on glögi, and was sitting down to write.
This wasn’t going to work.
Things were going too well.
Paul was happy. Paul was content. Oh, the writing wasn’t selling great, but they were still okay, with money in the bank. The kids weren’t perfect, but none of them was in jail. His marriage wasn’t Fourth-of-July rockets and parades, but he loved her and she loved him and it was good.
And there was no drama. No conflict. Nothing that was screaming to escape from his gut; nothing that was eating at his brain demanding to get out onto paper; no burning injustices that needed to be (fictionally) set right.
Nothing to write about.
He woke up his laptop, and opened the “ideas/unfinished” folder, and sighed.
His ‘end-of-the-world’ story. Yeah, that was original. Maybe he could name the female character “Eve” and somehow make it sound ironic.
The political commentaries clumsily disguised as extended metaphor...or maybe as parable? Sure, that wasn’t too on-the-nose, was it? They might sell, though...as long as they weren’t looking for subtlety or cleverness (which they weren’t).
The detective-noir parody. Nothing like low-hanging fruit, eh? It seemed funnier when he started it, but then again, when he started it he was 28 and, as best he could recall, drunk.
He was 50 now, and the glögi buzz was wearing off, and so was the urge to write. He was about to close the laptop when he noticed a file name that he didn’t recognize.
“Jinni”?
He’d never even started a story about a Genie, or Jinni, or anything like that. That was too hackneyed even for him; guy finds a Genie, gets some wishes, it doesn’t turn out well, he wishes he had his old life back, and he ends up either with some wisdom (the light ending) or getting totally screwed (the dark ending). That story had only been done about ten thousand times. He could almost remember a Twilight Zone episode…
On the “Jinni” file, the date for “file created” said today; the time said five minutes from now. He looked at it again; that couldn’t be right. But that’s what it said.
Now, he’d read enough stories to know that he shouldn’t click on that file. This was the point in the movie where everybody in the theater yells, “Don’t!” as the actor’s finger reaches for the keyboard.
So of course, he clicked on the file.
He felt his heartbeat, faster, louder. He half-expected some sort of flash of light or puff of smoke or something. Instead, nothing. Nothing happened. Well, that’s a disappointment.
No, wait, there was something; a YouTube window opened down in the lower right of his screen. A video of a guy, just his head and shoulders… blue suit, red tie. The guy’s lips were moving, and his hands were waving around trying to get attention. But no sound.
Paul realized that he had the laptop’s sound muted. He hit the ‘mute’ button again.
The video was paused...no, no, that wasn’t it. The guy’s face was moving, but just barely. Then the guy blinked. Then he smiled one of those smiles that isn’t exactly a smile.
“Thanks for unmuting. Would have been not much of a conversation with no sound.”
The guy in the video looked about fifty, dark hair, slicked back, thick eyebrows, dark eyes… some sort of vaguely eastern European accent?
The guy smiled again, that same sort of smile. “You did click on my file… you wanted a conversation?”
Wait. This guy was talking to him. A guy in a YouTube video was talking to him. And expecting him to talk back.
Paul quickly checked his screen; he didn’t have any other browser tabs open, no iTunes, no podcasts...no other files open. Just the YouTube video. There was nowhere else the sound could be coming from.
There was a chuckle; the guy in the video actually seemed amused now. “Tell you what, let’s make this easier… why don’t you drag my window up to the middle of your screen. More eye to eye, you know?”
That seemed harmless. Paul pulled the window to the center of his screen. He felt like he should say something...but what? This couldn’t really be happening, of course. He closed his eyes hard for a moment; no, it wasn’t the liquor, he didn’t feel buzzed...no, he did feel buzzed, but not that kind of buzzed. And along with the buzz there was some sort of alarm bell going off in the back of his head; this is not normal, this is wrong, this is dangerous, turn it off now, get away now, run now…
He pushed that alarm bell way further back into his head.
He felt his mouth open and heard words start coming out. “I don’t understand,” he stammered. “I clicked on this file and…” His eyes widened in horror. “Is this some sort of...like, did you hack me?” He felt anger pushing up through his fear and confusion. “Did you hack me?”
The guy’s smile was oddly relaxed now, like he had heard this question a million times. “No, no…” the guy said; both hands came up into view, palms forward, waving slightly in that universal ‘not me’ gesture.
Then the guy leaned forward, closer to the screen, and pointed towards him. “Well, sort of…I did put that file on your computer, and when you clicked it, it did give us a--how do I say--a connection.” The guy smiled warmly. “Look, I have offer for you. You don’t want it,” the guy sighed, and lifted his hands, palms upward, “then hey, you close the video, you delete the file, and our business is done.” The smile went away. “I don’t spend time on people who don’t want what I offer.”
Paul needed to feel some control of the situation. “Really? So, I say I don’t want this offer,” he tried to sound strong, sure of himself, “and, bink, you just go away, like it never happened?”
Bink. Why the hell did he say ‘bink’? Is that even a word?
“Exactly. Like it never happened.” The guy’s smile came back. “I like that...‘bink’. ”
Paul squinted at his screen, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, hoping the guy could see it. “And why should I believe you?”
The guy smiled again, somewhere between the non-smile he started with and the warm smile he’d developed. “Don’t take this a wrong way, friend, but… I got bigger fish. You know that saying?”
Paul found himself nodding. The weirdness of the situation was somehow ebbing; he now he felt like he was negotiating. He squinted again at the screen, his arms still crossed, wondering if he was coming across even vaguely like Clint Eastwood. He paused, silent, wanting to make the guy wait a bit. Two minutes, that would do; it actually lasted 15 seconds.
His mouth opened before he was ready: “So, what’s the offer?”
Paul had seen this new smile somewhere before; he just couldn’t quite remember. “Okay, here is deal,” said the guy. “Something for you, something for me, okay?”
He paused, leaving Paul room for some witty remark. He had nothing.
The guy raised an eyebrow and went on. “For you, I give you one wish. Whatever you want. Money, fame, sex, power… whatever, you know, uhh, floats your boat…” he smiled and paused again. Again, Paul had no comeback. Paul was concentrating on keeping his mouth from dropping open.
“But only one,” the guy held up one finger. “Only one, so, you know… choose wisely,” the guy chuckled.
Paul felt his mouth opening and closing, but nothing was coming out.
“And you?” the guy pointed towards the screen. “All you have to do is...give me good feedback.”
That was enough to jar Paul out of his incoherence. “Wait, wait...what? Good...feedback?”
The guy gave him an exaggerated shrug, like he didn’t understand it either. “That’s it…” He paused, and sighed, and seemed to lean forward again. “Look,” he said, gesturing with both hands, “I’m an ambitious guy. I got places I want to go, things I want to be. If I get good rankings, then…” He leaned back, smiling. “It helps me. This is a win-win, I think. We help each other.”
The only thought in Paul’s head at that moment was why this didn’t seem weirder. It somehow felt totally rational, totally reasonable, not odd at all.
So of course, what came out of his mouth was the stupidest question he could think of.
“So are you, like, a Genie or something? I mean, you know,” the words began to tumble out almost faster than he could form them. “I know that sounds silly like some kind of fairy tale or kid’s story or something but it’s the first thing I think of and what with the name of the file and...everything…” the string of words petered out limply.
The guy smiled. “Ehhh,” he raised his hands, “If you want. It’s an old word, you know, and it’s what they want us to use, but you… you can call me what you want.” The smile twisted into something mischievous, and he wagged his finger at the screen in a way that was supposed to be playful. “But nothing...impolite, you know? At least not to my face.”
Paul was quiet; he was thinking about the wish. What if this was real? One real wish, with no limits? He could wish for something grandiose, like peace on earth or an end to world hunger. Universal love. No more death. All the noble gestures he’d treasured up, as a kid raised in the backwash of the 1960’s… could he make those things actually happen? Or at least one of them? If he only had one, which one was the linchpin, that could set up the rest of them? He felt totally inadequate, like all this time he should have been paying more attention to...something or someone or...
And then he remembered all the stories he’d read, stories of the wish gone bad...where despite all the best intentions, it all turned out badly, turned out worse than if there was no wish at all.
He realized that he’d been staring at the guy the whole time; how long had it been, a minute, five, ten? The guy was smiling patiently, like this kind of thing happened every day.
“Uhhh…” Paul responded cleverly. “How much time do I get to decide?”
The guy pursed his lips. “Let’s say… three more minutes.”
“What!?!” the word came out without thought. “Bu-bu-but...This is the opportunity of a lifetime! I can’t do it in three minutes! That’s not fair!”
The guy seemed to fight back a chuckle. He spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Being ‘fair’ is not part of the deal. This…’fair’ you talk about is, umm...not what you think it is...” Paul started to object, but the guy held up a hand. “Look, friend, I have been doing this for a pretty long time now...” he leaned forward, like he was telling Paul a secret. “To be honest, more time...it just doesn’t help. Usually it just makes people more unhappy. More likely to second-guess, you know. Better to go with the gut.” He struck his fist on his apparently-well-muscled stomach.
Through his confusion, a thought flew to the front of Paul’s mind and forced its way out of his mouth. “First, one question,” he asked with unexpected boldness, “Why did you pick me?”
The guy smiled (jeez, did he always smile?), and nodded. “That’s a good question...not too many ask that. So, okay, I will tell you.” He stroked his really-large chin with his hand. “I was going through your files on the cloud, yes”--he raised a hand to stifle Paul’s unspoken objection--”and I saw your file of story ideas...and I thought, hey, that’s not bad. Good imagination. Let’s see what this guy’s got.”
Paul’s mouth opened, and closed again. Well, that was...unexpected. His story-idea file? For the first time, he questioned the guy’s omniscience, or omnipotence, or… taste. But it also gave him a clear thought about the wish.
“Okay, then,” Paul said, trying not to swallow his words, “I wish to be a great writer.”
The guy folded his hands in front of him; it occurred to Paul (for the first time) that the guy was probably sitting down. He was moving his clasped hands around, like he wanted to clap, or shake hands with someone, like he was genuinely pleased, genuinely excited. “Good, good, that is very good. This will be very good.”
The guy smiled for what seemed like a long time...and then the smile faded, and he was silent for a long time. Paul didn’t speak either; it didn’t feel like it was his turn yet.
The guy stared at his hands, like he was looking for just the right words. Then he looked up; the smile was somehow more grim...this guy had so many different smiles it was like deciphering a foreign language. “But you know, many writers…” he sighed, but Paul wasn’t sure if it was sincere or for effect. “Many writers are very lonely people...they live so much in here,” he pointed to his head. “Or else they know great tragedy, great loss, and the writing is like, how do you call it...therapy?” He looked expectantly at Paul. “Even though this is a free wish, I do not promise that there will not be great cost.”
Paul was silent. If it was his turn to talk, he didn’t have anything to say.
“You are happy, yes?” the guy asked.
“Yes, I am.” Paul said without hesitating.
There was a pause. “Do you wish to be unhappy?” the guy asked, giving him the palms-up gesture again.
Paul had supposed that picking something for himself, something “selfish,” would make it easier. This wasn’t easier. This felt like he was deciding the whole rest of his life right in this moment.
The words came with unexpected boldness. “I wish to be a great writer.”
The guy leaned back, his chin resting on his upraised fingertips, and seemed to study Paul. The silence felt thick, somehow weighty, and Paul’s mind scattered, panicked; he could’ve said baseball announcer, or billionaire, or piano player… why did it always have to come back to writing? Where did this masochism come from?
The voice jolted Paul from his reverie. “Okay.” the guy said.
It was clearly Paul’s turn to talk. “Okay...what?”
“Okay, you are a great writer. Consider it done.”
Something like a cold sweat came over Paul. His stomach was turning over, his mouth was dry, he was slightly dizzy. Is this what magic felt like? He didn’t like it very much; it felt like the flu.
“And you…” the guy’s voice called him back to the screen. “After 365 days, you will contact me again, and we will talk about things… and about the feedback.” The guy leaned back, looking satisfied. “You are clear on this, yes? 365 days from today.”
Paul felt his mouth open. “Yes, 365 days, clear.”
Without his touching the keyboard, the video window closed, and his laptop went into sleep mode.
The First Middle Part
The next thing he felt was no feeling at all in his jaw. And his back hurt.
He sat up, aching. He had fallen asleep with his face on the keyboard; God, how drunk had he been? The light through the window was painful; just before he pulled the shades he did a quick estimate...10 a.m.?
His phone told him he was only off by a couple of minutes; waking up at 10 was not unfamiliar to him. Since it was Sunday, his wife would’ve swept the kids and herself out the door to church; he’d have to apologize later for not going, especially on Christmas morning. But for now, he guessed he was alone in the house.
He was achy, but he wasn’t hungover. So why had he slept on the keyboard?
And then he remembered last night. He reached up to hold his head, expecting to find a headache. Not there. No, he hadn’t been drunk last night. He rubbed his scalp, like he was trying to massage his synapses into creating something rational.
He woke up his laptop, and there it was. The “Jinni” file. He sat back, and was surprised to find that he had no trouble recalling every word of last night’s conversation.
Great Writer, huh? Okay, massive suspension of disbelief needed here...but what the hell? It was this, or that ad copy for the condom company that was due next week. Next week would worry about itself.
“Well, Merry Christmas, Paul,” he said to himself. He reached down into the desk mini-fridge for a coke, opened a new file on the laptop, and went to work.
The Second Middle Part
The mailbox was full that morning; a folded-over manila envelope that was probably the book contract he’d been expecting, along with a couple of computer-printed “tear-off-the-edge” things...checks from the magazines. Thursdays were always the best day for mail, and checking the mailbox was a nice break for him.
Paul had settled with surprising ease into rolling out of bed at 7, downing a chocolate bar (dark, of course) and a coke and then sitting down at the keyboard to write. Some mornings were better than others, of course, but starting was the important part. Once he started it always ended up in a good place, sooner or later, whether it was a short story or a spec screenplay or knocking off another chapter of the novel. There was that chance to write a political piece for The Atlantic; that was a surprise. But he had to have it in by April 1, two weeks from now; that check would cover this year’s taxes.
The manila envelope wasn’t what he expected; that cable network had bought his pitch for a series! There had been a couple of phone calls, but they were so positive and noncommittal, like phone calls always were; nothing meant anything until there was a contract to sign. And this envelope had a gushing handwritten letter from the network president (of course, it was indeed a pretty unknown startup network), along with a contract. Paul would have Jerry look over the contract, of course… but the terms, as best he could understand, looked really really favorable, in terms of him keeping control of the content. And he could for sure understand the numbers; they were really really really favorable.
But Paul only gave himself half an hour on Thursdays for mail. He quickly made a PBJ, pulled out another coke, and went back to work.
The Third Middle Part
It was damned strange seeing his own face on a magazine cover. But there it was.
Paul was in line at the supermarket; his wife never bought quite enough dark chocolate or coke to last the week, so he always ended up going out for more. It was nothing to complain about; it gave him a chance to get out of the house and see real people who weren’t related to him. The only real people he contacted otherwise were by email or text or the phone.
He pulled a copy of the magazine out of the rack. The picture was him and Bill and Shelley, the network president, at the press conference Shelley had called to celebrate their Emmy nomination. The cover text was something like “The Little Network That Could.” He didn’t mind sharing the picture; Shelley had taken a risk on him, an unknown guy...and if Bill hadn’t come on board, well, it probably wouldn’t’ve happened. And Bill was a nicer guy than people said, anyway. He knew just how to chew up and spit out Paul’s dialogue. And Shelley’s ”little network” was up for three major awards and ten overall; she had surprised him and changed his credited title from ‘story editor’ to ‘showrunner.’ With the salary bump, Paul bought his wife a BMW that she despised and never drove, plus a couple of acres of Wisconsin lakefront that she couldn’t stop talking about.
Way inside, he hoped someone in line would notice the magazine cover, then notice him, and say something. Didn’t happen. He got back in his car and drove home, and went back to work.
He hadn’t thought about the Jinni for months.
The Fourth Middle Part
It was funny how the biggest thing in his life right now was speaking at his son’s high school career day.
He got to talk about being a writer, about how writing books and articles and blogs and television and movies were all different. The teacher looked more excited than anyone, of course; his show wasn’t really pitched to high schoolers and the teacher was the only one old enough to remember when Bill was a giant star. But it was still a kick. He brought the students copies of the comic book mini-series he’d written; that was probably the most fun he’d had yet. He even showed them the magazine cover...not the nomination one; the new one, with a nice spread on his show taking the Best Drama Series Emmy plus two more...including one for Bill.
Then there was the mid-December phone call, and the limousine ride. He’d never ridden in a limo before, not to prom, not even to the Emmys (they’d jump-started his wife’s BMW and used that; she made him drive). But today was a limo. After miles of Kenny G and not-cold-enough light beers, he and three blue suits ended up at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where he was swept into a large suite. Apparently the governor was going to run for President, and he’d liked Paul’s Atlantic article from last spring. The governor’s wife did most of the talking, about how this was an important cause, and how Paul could articulate their vision in language people could rally around, and how it was all so very very important. She kept mentioning “turning points in history” and “reclaiming the center.” The governor seemed to be nodding and smiling...maybe a little vacantly, like he’d rather be golfing. There was talk about becoming chief speechwriter, and perhaps Press Secretary.
Paul was very positive and noncommittal. He had to cut the goodbyes afterwards a little short; he had a PBS interview later that night about his “Book of the Year” award.
The Ending
The Christmas Eve celebration had come and gone. It had been the most extraordinary year, of course; to even call it “life-changing” seemed both clichéd and deeply inadequate.
At his wife’s insistence, the Christmas gifts had been “restrained”; Paul was determined to keep his life as “normal” as he could control, and his wife thought that should start with the budget. She was right, of course; she was a smart woman. They had money to spend, but...
Maybe, somewhere not very deep inside, he had a sense that all this was somehow...what? Temporary? Contingent? That was a good word, contingent. Contingent on a mysterious inexplicable character who had hacked his computer one year ago tonight.
He looked around at his wife, and his kids; he had never told them about that night, about the Jinni. He hoped that the Jinni was telling the truth, and that a deal was a deal.
All evening, he had to keep pushing away the thought that he had business to take care of. And so, once everyone had gone to bed, he went to take care of it.
He opened his laptop; he noticed that his hands were shaking just a little. He found the “Jinni” file and clicked on it.
The video screen popped opened, but it was blank. Well, not exactly blank; there was some sort of background, but the guy wasn’t there. It was like the camera was on, but no one was home.
Then he heard a sound, like from far off-camera: “Wait, wait, don’t go, hold on…”
The guy rushed into frame from the right of the screen. No suit and tie this time; it looked like a dark t-shirt. He looked oddly… what was it: Disheveled? Disturbed? Disgusted? No, not exactly; it was something else.
The guy looked...not in control. This was new.
The guy looked at him. “So, this…this is hard to...explain. This is…” There was something like rage that flashed across the guy’s face, but he pushed it down. “This has not been as…” The guy looked downward, dragged his hand across his mouth. Suddenly he looked up, staring at Paul; the rage had returned. “And where have you been?” he growled. “If you’d…” he started. “I probably could’ve…” But the rage faded as fast as it had come; there was an odd look of weariness, of resignation.
Paul was startled. As often with this guy, Paul started to talk without thinking: “You told me to check back in 365 days… that’s today.” He felt some sense of control returning. “365, to the day, as a matter of fact.” He hoped he wasn’t smirking at the screen.
The guy grimaced, and sighed. “Okay, look,” he tried to smile but didn’t quite get there. “I... don’t know how to say but…” The guy looked around, and for the first time Paul began to wonder about where the guy actually was transmitting from, and got the sense that it was a very small space. “I know, I say that I would grant your wish but…” The guy actually looked pained now. “I do not understand what happen…” He threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know how, but I am stuck here, behind some new firewall or some damn thing. I have been stuck, working a year… no texting, no file access, not even any...email.” He spit out the last word. “It is most god-damned thing I have ever…”
The guy punched his right hand hard into his left, hard enough that Paul actually winced. Paul thought for a moment about the antiviral software he’d installed a year ago, shortly after his first encounter with the Jinni. Probably not something to bring up right now.
The guy was looking down now, silent. His arms dropped to his sides, and when he looked back up to Paul, he somehow seemed... smaller? “So look, I know you are not now happy. I know we have deal, and I am not…” he sighed again. “...able to complete my...obligation. So I understand if you do not wish to…”
Paul didn’t hear the rest of what he said; wait, what? He pulled down the lid of the laptop,
Wait. Wait wait wait. The Jinni hadn’t done anything? Nothing? The book (hell, the books!), the deals, the meetings, the screenplays...and the stories, the stories, all of those stories… None of what had happened to him the last year had anything to do with the Jinni?
That couldn’t be. That was totally impossible. That would mean that…
He had done it himself? No magic? No tricks? It was...him, just him?
Paul started trying to play back the whole last year in his head, trying to see it differently, trying to see how it could have been just him… but it all blurred together; it had become a giddy rush of goodness that would not be dissected, would not be analyzed. It was not separate from him, it was who he was now.
He opened his laptop.
The guy actually looked pleased to see him. “Oh, oh,” the guy seemed to smile nervously; that was also new. “I thought maybe you…you know, umm, pissed off or something.”
The guy looked even smaller than before.
Paul smiled, feeling for the first time relaxed in these conversations. “No, no, I just needed a minute. Are you okay?”
The guy looked like that was a brand-new question. “Umm, yes… yes, I am okay. I am though feeling...badly...that I am not...able, you know?” The guy’s face seemed to be trying out a new expression, one it had never done before.
“I don’t know what happened to you, “ Paul said. “I’m not much of a tech guy. But as far as I’m concerned, you held up your end.” The guy’s face was now confused; that face was getting a workout of new expressions. The guy’s mouth opened and he started to say something, but seemed to think better of it.
“So for feedback, I have no problem giving you five stars,” Paul said. “No problem at all. I’d say I’m a satisfied customer.”
The guy’s face was working hard now; his brow furrowing and unfurrowing, his mouth opening and closing, his eyebrows rising and dropping. He started to gesture towards the screen, then his hand dropped down out of frame.
“You are...sure?” the guy said, his chin dropped so that he was now looking up towards Paul. “This is, you need to know, not the way I usually…”
Paul waved towards the screen, and heard his own words, sounding...what was it? Magnanimous? “Don’t worry about it. You did me a service. I don’t know how or… well, that doesn’t matter now, does it? Let’s both go away happy, okay?”
The guy smiled up at him (was he really smaller now?). “Okay, umm…” he seemed to be searching for words. “Umm, thank...you…?” he ventured, as if he was unsure how to use those words. “I hope…” the guy sighed, looking very much as if he was very far from home. “I hope it...goes well for you.”
He seemed, for the first time, to smile genuinely.
Paul smiled. “You too. I hope it goes well for you.” He felt one eyebrow rising. “And, as you said, I just delete the file and we are… bink, done?” He resisted allowing the smile to decay into a smirk.
The guy’s smile turned nervous, and waved his hands in front of his face. “Oh yes, yes… I will not bother you again! Promise!” He raised one hand and looked down for someplace on his body to put it, eventually settling on the middle of his chest. “Promise!”
He brought his other hand up into frame, flicking his fingers. “And yes, bink!” He looked at Paul. “And when you delete the file, I am free from here, free from a year of…” The guy looked away, his mouth tight, and then looked back at Paul. It couldn’t have been, but the guy’s expression looked something like...no, probably not...
“Well then, Jinni,” Paul said, “You’re free. Goodbye, good luck.” He scrolled up to delete the file, and the video window disappeared.
Paul was a man of his word. Later that evening he logged into the website the Jinni had given him, and gave him a five-star rating. He thought about it for a minute, then added the comment, “Excellent service, timely and considerate, just as promised. Highly recommended.” That was a stretch, of course, but writers lie for a living.
Then he rolled into bed, leaned over to kiss his sleeping wife, and fell into a most contented sleep.
