In the two hours I’d been staring at this quarter-sized spider on my ceiling I’d built him up to epic proportions. He was the van-sized arachnid with dripping fangs to my cowering lady in distress. In the fantasy I’m wearing a silky slip and ’50s-style coif à la some dated horror movie poster. But today I’m playing both victim and gutsy dame who saves the day.
“I need to kill it,” I tell the phone, eyes never leaving my eight-legged adversary. “But I want to do it from as far away as possible.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he replies. “I usually go for a paper towel, but when you wad it up you feel the crunch.”
I grab an old copy of InStyle, apologizing in advance for the spider juice I’m about to smear across Scarlett’s smiling face. Roll the magazine, approach the intruder and, eyes open, take a swing.
He slow-motion crumples, slow-motion floats to the floor. I can see his body up close — with all limbs tucked tight, just the size of my little fingernail. He was so much smaller postmortem. Still. He’s flushed down the toilet just in case. I don’t want any back-from-the-dead and out-for-revenge spider crawling across my eyelids while I sleep.
Back at my vantage point on the couch, there’s no sign of a struggle across the room.