A Touch of Prismatic Order

Perching upon the sunlit wooden sill, I lightly held an eyelash-sized, all-brown micro-cigarette between the satin fingertips of my emerald-green opera gloves. A microscopic spark of pink energy flared at the tip, releasing a faint wisp of rose smoke past my cat-eye shades. Just ahead, an antique brass prism stand was turned carelessly away from the glare, casting fractured, clumsy shadows instead of a clean spectrum. With an effortless flick of my wrist, I directed a sleek pulse of magnetic force into its brass armature. The crystal pivoted with a crisp chime, showering vibrant rainbow beams across my heels. Drama demands proper direction, darling.