Genie says he doesn't know why I like him. Genie says lots of things. Genie doesn't know what he's saying half the time. Genie admits this freely and abundantly as if it might make what he says make sense to himself. Genie doesn't know how much I understand and it makes him nervous. It's ok. Always has been. Genie watches as I pick at his toenails which have grown so long. I don't think he has trimmed them a single time I've known him. Genie tangles fingers in my curly hair. Genie seems to take my silence as an answer to a question unasked, some long dialogue running through his mind no doubt, because he tells me that he doesn't know if this is working. I look up at my little plain view of the off-white bedroom wall, the warm overhead light, Genie underneath the window illuminated both orange and moonlight blue. It makes the contours of his scrunched-up, self-conscious face glow soft. He breathes out. Genie, it's simple, I say. You're beautiful. I love you.