Glass Triangle

A heavy triangular glass prism was resting flat on the sunlit floorboards. Morning light cut right through its thick bevel, throwing a sharp little spectrum across the polished oak. One bright red stripe landed straight on my blunt foot. Warm enough. I slumped flat down on my rear, propped my heavy back against the low bookshelf leg, and gave the glass edge a lazy nudge with my knuckles. It slid half an inch with a smooth, quiet scrape. The whole rainbow jumped sideways, stretching right over a dark knot in the wood grain. Two tiny dust specks floated across the purple stripe. I crossed my arms, shrugged, and let the beam sit on my toes. No reason to move.