Chapter 11: Lowest of Lows

7:00 a.m. – Pop.

It takes exactly one second to realize what’s happened.

The pop. The weight. The warm, moist pressure where pressure should not be.

You don’t even open your eyes. You just whisper, “Please be a dream.”

It isn’t.

You look down.

She’s older, with bleach-fried hair, deep-set wrinkles, and the faint smell of menthols and coffee grounds clinging to her skin. Her face is pressed flush against your pelvis, cheeks and nose mashed so firmly you can feel every breath like a confession.

She freezes when she sees you’re awake. Then she does the most normal thing imaginable under the circumstances: she screams into your crotch.

You scream back.

It takes a while for either of you to stop.

Finally, muffled against you, she says, “What the hell is this?”

“Magic,” you croak.

She groans. “Of course it is.”

7:45 a.m. – Damage Control

Her name is Darlene. She works the early shift at Waffle House. She chain-smokes. She has two grown kids. She has exactly zero patience for whatever this is.

You give her the genie explanation while throwing on sweatpants (pointless, really, since she’s glued directly to skin) and trying to find the least soul-destroying way to say “I wished for something stupid, and this is my punishment.”

She listens in horrified silence. When you finish, she sighs.

“Okay,” she says, muffled against you. “Then we’re going to work.”

“You want to… go to work? Like this?”

“I can’t afford to miss a shift, sweetheart.”

You rub your face. “I can’t afford to emotionally survive this.”

She doesn’t respond.

8:30 a.m. – The Drive

Getting into your car is its own circus. You can’t face each other. You can’t angle properly. At one point you’re both half on the seat, half in the air, swearing in unison.

“Don’t pull,” she says.

“I’m not pulling, you’re pulling.”

“Stop talking.”

“Then stop breathing on my—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

9:00 a.m. – Waffle House Hell

You’ve never been more aware of your own body than you are standing in a Waffle House kitchen with a woman’s face attached to your groin.

The smell of frying bacon mixes with the stale sweat of absolute humiliation.

Darlene throws on an apron one-handed. “Don’t just stand there. We’re in this together. Grab plates.”

You shuffle behind her like some grotesque human centipede.

She takes orders, moves between tables, pours coffee—all while glued to you, speaking through gritted teeth and fabric. “Don’t… say a word. Just… pretend you’re not here.”

As if that’s possible.

Customers stare. Whisper. One guy laughs out loud. Darlene just says, “Keep laughing, and I’ll spit in your hashbrowns.”

11:15 a.m. – The Incident

A toddler points at you. “Mommy, what’s that man doing to the lady?”

Darlene stops dead.

You want to evaporate.

The mother grabs the kid and hustles them out without making eye contact.

“Add that to the list of things I’m explaining to my therapist,” you mumble.

“Add it to mine too,” she replies.

2:00 p.m. – Break

She drags you out back for a cigarette.

You stand awkwardly, trying to find a position where your dignity isn’t fully compromised (spoiler: it is).

“You married?” she asks suddenly, smoke curling past her cheek.

“No.”

“Figures.”

You don’t respond.

After a moment, she says, “This the worst day of your life?”

You nod. “Easily.”

She takes another drag. “Me too.”

6:00 p.m. – Closing Time

By the end of her shift, you smell like fry oil and humiliation. She smells like fry oil and menthols.

You limp back to the car together in silence.

“Thanks for… not panicking,” you say.

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, “this isn’t even top five weirdest things that’s happened to me at work.”

You believe her.

11:59 p.m. – Bed

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. Darlene lies sideways, still attached, sighing through her nose like she’s aged another decade today.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

She’s quiet for a long time. Then:

“Wash better down there.”

Pop.

She’s gone.

You don’t move.

You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if the genie laughs every time this happens.

You’re starting to think he does.