He doesn’t understand. He wishes for fairytale endings and magical authority, without even the briefest moment of self-doubt. To the ceiling he asks for fingers that extend, so he can rid of the television remote and become independent. To change the channel with the flick of his wrist, or stir his icy, cordial mix when a spoon is out of reach, or pick his toes while lying sleepy in bed.
And lazing in his relaxo-max lounger, he clutches his hands close to his breast and wishes for a cooler of beer, permanently chilled and perpetually full; the brand that cleans the teeth when sloshed about the mouth and tickles the nose when sent down the throat. He massages his pants at the clinical thought of wetting his brow with the condensation, and at the satisfying click of the tab breaking open, releasing a fizz that could get a man drunk, were that not the liquids purpose.
But a telescopic digit and lifetime inebriance didn’t satiate his lazy yearning for wish making and groin massaging. His third desire - and final one as is the tradition – must utterly fulfil his every other want, besides that of alcohol and convenience poking. And thus after much deliberation and channel surfing he decides finally upon what most strokes his joy centre.
And with glee, he curls his toes within his browning socks while rubbing his chalkboard arms.
“I wish and wish with all my might, for an awesome sandwich that could win a fight.”
And he acted surprised as if this hadn’t happened before, not yesterday or on his last birthday, no puff of blue smoke materialised his fancy.
“What manner of blackness prevents me my meal?”
He theatrically mocks the appropriate movements: eyes gawping and mouth gaping, suspicious peering and impatient tutting, only to give up and smack his forehead, to relax into the bruised leather.
Tomorrow will prove, like tonight and last night before them, that he will never understand what he needs cannot be blinked into existence. So, on and on he will continue, disappointment following desire until death follows life. One hand down his pants, the other pointing up his nose.