I am not a romantic soul. Nobody will ever consider writing on my tombstone: “HERE LIES THE LAST OF THE GREAT ROMANTICS!” Yet, a while back, I wrote something romantic for a young lady. By the time I was ready to present it to her she has vanished. Perhaps it was for the best.

I was told later on that it should have been accompanied by a long-stem rose (or is it more than one rose? Chocolate was apparently an alternative choice). Just handing a piece of paper was sure to get me blacklisted by the lady in question. No matter, I can at least share with you my first, and probably last, billet doux (romantic note).

I freed a genie from her bottle and in her gratitude she granted me one wish.

Genie, oh genie! I want a woman who was created when the Maker was in a generous mood.

A woman who has the splendor of the female, the daring of the male, and a wisdom beyond her years.

A woman who has not poisoned her mind and body with drugs, excess alcohol, or cigarettes.

Genie, oh genie! I need the sound of a velvety voice, the sight of a pretty face, or the tinkling of happy laughter; for without that, how can I stoke the fires of my imagination?

The genie asked me why I did not request money and power, for with that I can have any woman.

Genie, oh genie! The woman I am looking for cannot be bought at any price.

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