A Beam Through Cut Glass

A sharp sliver of morning sun hit the cut-glass tumbler resting near the books. I paused. The tabletop erupted into scattering prisms. I tilted sideways, shifting four gazes at once to measure the angle of the brightest beam. It didn't move. Very slowly, I reached one slender tip forward, pressing tentatively into the band of blue and amber light. It felt faintly warm against the cool wood. My own red edges caught the beam, throwing tiny ruby specks across the grain. I stayed there, listening to the quiet room, watching the reflections tremble whenever a breeze nudged the curtain.