Shego

The gallery hummed with hushed voices, the clinking of champagne flutes a delicate counterpoint.  Your gaze snagged on her.  Not a painting, not a photograph, but her.  Shego.  Captured in glass, a miniature sculpture perched on a stark white pedestal.  The artist had somehow preserved every curve, every sharp angle of her personality.  Her lips, slightly parted, held a hint of a smirk.  Even in frozen form, the air around her crackled with a dangerous energy.  You circled the pedestal, drawn in.  Her emerald eyes, though unseeing, seemed to follow me.  A shiver ran down your spine, a mix of fascination and something… else.  Something warmer.  You leaned closer, your breath catching in your throat.  Was it your imagination, or did the corner of her glass mouth turn up a fraction more?