the spider in my room.
there is a spider living in my bedroom. i know this because we crossed paths this afternoon. i think it was a surprise for both of us — i know it was for me — but i can’t tell for sure how the spider felt. i walked into my room to grab a book or a my keys or something like that, i don’t remember, and there she was. i mean, i assume it was a she, i didn’t ask. there’s something that’s just awkward about asking someone whether they’re a boy or a girl, not for me personally, but some people are offended by the question.
at first i didn’t notice her. i turned around and walked out of the room, but then i thought to myself, “i don’t recall there being three push pins that wall,” and turned around to take a closer look. indeed, there were two push pins and a spider. we just stared at each other, neither quite sure what to say, both hoping the other was not real, or would just go away without having to be asked, or both. the spider was black, about the size of a dime, with some whitish parts, bulky towards the front, as if the front legs were swollen.
i can’t remember who broke the silence. i think we both decided to acknowledge the idiocy of our mutual denial of each other’s presence in the same moment. the spider said something about not being sure if anyone was in the house, and that she had been taken entirely surprise. i apologized for catching her off guard, hoping that i hadn’t scared her, realizing immediately afterwards that i shouldn’t be the one making apologies. it is, after all, my own bedroom. the spider said not to worry about her, she wasn’t frightened at all. i asked her how long she’d been living here. she said she couldn’t recall exactly, but not an extraordinarily short while.
for a time, again neither of us said anything. i was trying to figure out the best way to deal with this invasion of my personal space, while keeping myself composed. i think the spider was mostly annoyed by the fact that she’d been found out. every few seconds she would sigh, as if to say, “really?”. not knowing what to say or do, i invited the spider to lunch, which i had been preparing downstairs. “there are some dead flies on the windowsill that you’re welcome to. or if you prefer a tomato sandwich?”
the spider hastily declined, remarking almost snidely that she’d never eat anything that she didn’t kill herself. i didn’t know exactly how to respond, but i became very angry very quickly. it was as if i had been directly threatened. how dare she invade my home and then decline my invitation?! i’d even prepared rose hip tea and blueberry tarts for dessert! it would be nice, something we could do together. i hated that spider. i wanted to kill her, and i think she could feel my vicious intent. the spider said nothing, and had yet to move. i stared at her, visualized the shoe laying in the corner of my room crushing her little exoskeleton and her pulverized remains falling to the floor. i looked hard at the spider, my rage overwhelming. after a few seconds my rage turned to exasperation, then to resentment, then to sadness, and finally to some combination of indifference and pity. then, in a moment of benevolence, i turned and walked straight out of the room.
i went downstairs and enjoyed my lunch, and for a while i forgot all about the spider. i went to a cafe and checked my e-mail very thoroughly, finished reading a book, and drank two cups of coffee. after that, i went to a friend’s house where we listened to john cage, had a nice smoke, and discussed the possible differences between red and white quinoa. when i returned home, i took a shower, and then i sat on my bed to dry off, and that’s when i remembered the spider. i looked over to the wall beside me, but she was gone.
