I'm sitting on the foot of my bed soaking wet, wrapped in a towel, and shaking from head to toe.
I have to do something. I need to stand up for myself, and prove that I have the power, I am in control here.
Okay. I stand up, march down the hallway, slowly push open the bathroom door and peek in.
He's still in there. Ew!
He's just staring at me from the floor. Looking up at me through all those beady eyes ready to attack in full force. This isn't fair! For fucks sake he has EIGHT legs how am I supposed to compete with that?
I'll just come back later.
No, you need to get ready for work.
NO, I can just go naked.
Get back in there.
But he's massive!
YOU are bigger! Get back in there!
The internal debate persists in my mind for several more minutes before I finally build up the courage and step into the bathroom. He really is massive though, nearly the size of my fist! I thought those wimpy black widows back home were big, then I moved to Australia.
Actually, he doesn't look so scary.
He's cornered. The poor thing was trapped by the shower on one side, run off water from my bath on the other, and ME in front of him.
He looks a little scared himself now that I think about it.
He's sprawled out and frozen in terror. Suddenly he doesn't look so massive. In fact, he probably wants to get out just as much as I want him to. Some sort of unexpected sympathy sets in and I start imagining his family and friends. Maybe he has little baby spiders that miss him. Maybe he has a girlfriend in the backyard wondering where he is, if he's found someone with longer legs and taken off. I start to feel kind of sad for the little guy...
But then he does something detrimental to his survival...
HE MOVES.
I shriek and jump and grab the closest thing to me, a can of hairspray!
ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK!
I spray and spray, he wriggles around trying to escape. Each move he makes provokes another blast of sticky chemical. The struggle seems to last for hours, I'm sweating and my spray finger starts to cramp. Eventually he stops fighting and the battle is over. I grab what I need for work and bolt from the room.
That's right. I'm the boss.
Until the next morning...
I hadn't really thought about the spider again after flushing his crumpled body down the toilet. I carried on with my day at work, returned home and enjoyed dinner with my housemates, I showered before bed in peace and woke up the next morning with not a worry in the world. I proceeded through my morning routine of pouring tea, making breakfast and picking a chore to be done. Hmmmm, judging by the mountain of clothes blocking my passage into my own room, I guess it's laundry day.
I gather all my dirties and make my way down the hall to the laundry room. I'm just organizing my clothes, as innocent as one can be, minding my own damn business. I open the door of the laundry machine and...
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
He's back!
Okay clearly it's not the same spider. The other spider died. I killed him. This is someone new!
Oh shit. It's probably his cousin or something.
I've slammed the door closed and backed against the opposite wall, weighing my options. I've come to the conclusion that this new spider is definitely in some way related to the last spider and is no doubt here for revenge. My mind races with images of a war began, hundreds of thousands of armed eight-legged creatures the size of Chihuahuas angrily surrounding my house demanding justice. I see their glistening poisonous fangs and they hold spears and machine guns.
No.I think. I am not going to let this happen.
I stand there and begin talking to the spider, through the metal door of course. The negotiation goes something like this;
"He there Mr. Spider. So look, I know you are pissed. I would be too if I was you. But you see, I really think we need to make peace with what happened and move forward. What happened was a tragedy, and you don't want more tragedy do you? No me either. So maybe if you could find it in your heart to forgive me... oh fuck it."
I reach over, choose a cycle and press start.
I can do laundry next month.
