Conversations with a Spider
A differant type of companion
Susan stared at the spider. “Hello you,” she said. They didn’t say anything back. That would continue to be a fixture in their conversations.
Morning light creeped through the window.
The room she was in was mostly empty.
“I was hoping you’d be back,” she guiltily looked at the broom in the corner of her living room, “I hope you’ve forgiven me,” the spider stayed in place.
Susan sat down on her sofa. “So I’m fitting in a bit in this little village. And work is work. I admire your cobwebs.”
The spider showed indifference to her compliment. But she persisted. “Since you’re my housemate I hope we can be friends. Even if we didn’t have the best of starts. Are you ok with that?”
After the silence, she went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. When she returned the spider had gone.
40 years later, the 80-year-old Susan was still having conversations with a spider. The night was alive outside.
The room they were in was mostly full. Full of framed pictures, sentimental objects and trinkets.
“Alice talked way too much today, but I think she’s missing her husband.”
The spider, balanced on the wall, seemed to Susan to be rapt in attention.
“Maybe she just needs a Jasper like me, eh?” she chuckled. After the silence, she said, “Noone believes you’re the same spider. But who cares? Thanks again for dealing with the flies.”
Susan went to the kitchen to make some tea. The spider, as always, went about their business. Only they were aware of the state of their consciousness, and they seemed to Susan not in the mood to tell anybody.
Susan had lived her life sweetened by conversations with a spider, and maybe even preferred that they replied only in polite silences she saw as complex and intricate as the webs she lets hang around her flat.
When she returned the spider was not there, and she sank into her sofa and sipped her tea. “Until we meet again, my friend.”
