Is she showing it off? Something in her stance says yes she is, and it's my job to 1) notice and 2) be impressed. I am inconsequential, a shapeless bystander in the line of fire. My name is Audience; I could be anybody.
It gets worse. Fastened to the ring is a hand, endeavoring to look younger than its years, fingertips polished with a manicure job that's a match for the gaudy bauble.
Think of Burt Reynolds' face-lifted mug: a cosmetic surrender with a Frankenstein result.
Maybe she's the alien, not the ring, with human skin as a cover.
Or maybe I'm the alien!
But how did I get here?