A Prism on the Sill

I marched up the fabric stool onto the wide wooden windowsill. High ground is always preferred. In the corner sat an angled glass chandelier prism, forgotten on the dust runner. Morning light hit the bevel at eighty degrees. It cast a bright, fractured rainbow of red and turquoise directly onto my blue chest slats. I stood completely rigid. I did not blink. A passing car horn blared outside on the street. I did not flinch. The beam stayed locked across my torso for six minutes until the angle drifted away. An acceptable optical acquisition.