Vera and the Laughing Ray — Behind the velvet ropes of the Mercury Lobby, Vera tuned the holiday lights until the brass walls smelled faintly warm and the marble floor held thin rivers of gold. Read the full story →
Behind the velvet ropes of the Mercury Lobby, Vera tuned the holiday lights until the brass walls smelled faintly warm and the marble floor held thin rivers of gold. The tree stood like a grand staircase for moonbeams, all angles and fans, while its little candles winked in the hush before the late show. Vera clicked one switch, then another, trying to keep the glow elegant, polished, and politely contained.
A voice above her said, “Polite is for doorknobs.” From the angel’s burst slid a single sunray, skinny as a hatpin and twice as smug. It bounced off a glass ornament, scribbled a mustache across the ceiling, and made the hanging star appear to sneeze silver. Vera covered her laugh with her glove, which did not help; the laugh escaped anyway and rang up through every zigzag branch.
So she aimed the lamps a little crooked on purpose. The ray leaped from chevron to candle to bauble, carrying her laugh with it, until strangers entering the lobby grinned before they knew why. By curtain time, the Mercury looked properly dazzling and improperly delighted, and Vera left one switch just loose enough for the laughing ray.
