Atmospheric Cue

A vintage brass plant mister sat unattended upon the cedar bench outside the corner nursery, its coiled thumb-plunger practically begging for a director's cue. Every premier production demands atmospheric haze to catch the midday beam. Stepping deliberately across the damp wood, I approached the tarnished cylinder and gripped the curved pump ring with both gloved hands. With measured, theatrical poise, I drove the lever downward. A sharp metallic hiss released an exquisite cloud of micro-droplets, drifting into the sunlight like an opening-act fog machine. I squared my shoulders, clasped my hands behind my back, and basked in the luminous vapor. Now that is how one stages an entrance.