Calculated Everyone takes her measure as Candela enters the room, her dress a nebula, airy with valences. (Lady Calorie Langley frowns, mutters behind her fan to her loyal Slyke.) Candela's joules are breathtaking - the bracelet of twinking amperes, and at her throat, a huge, flawless erg. At her side is Petri Faraday, Count of Volt, drinking tola and admiring the lustre of the coulombs in his beloved's hair. They tread a measure in the dance: a rundlet, an edison, a quire. He asks after her pet picomoles, Mips and Mutchkin, and she laughs. (The anarchist Smoot looks on in jealous frustration. He sees the sea-miles in her eyes; knows she will never smile at him.) Supper is laid on the periodic table: centipawns in ream sauce, charka-baked mease, sweet poiseuilles, endless magnons of sparkling lanac. A violinist plays Mercalli and mournful Danfon, who are as fashionable as silken ells, furlong boots and polished acre. More dancing follows, and Candela flings herself into a wild legua. At midnight she calls loudly for her furman to bring round the carriage; but as she passes Faraday, she furtively slips her cordel into his hand. He nods very slightly, inhaling her scent of centibar. Tonight's moment will be lepton. C'est la crore. This poem first appeared on Eye to the Telescope.