FISHING SPIDER

I found a fishing spider in the house. She was spread open like a vacuum-colored star. Honeyed light glinted off the hairs of her exoskeleton. Suspended beneath her was an abandoned skin; a hollow, hallowed husk coiled inward. It twirled every time I took a breath.

When I was a little girl, spiders terrified me, just like everyone else. But when I was around seventeen, I thought I was wise. It wasn’t until my prefrontal cortex was completely developed that my mother became a genius. I would often watch videos on the internet, specifically involving orb weavers, goliath bird-eaters, and even tailless whip scorpions. Arachnophobia is a fear-mongering perpetuated by the eidolons of our ancestors. If they knew what we know now, perhaps spiders could have earned domestication status.

The walls of the furnace room were coated in a cold slime. She attempted to chameleon herself between two copper pipes. I let her know I could still see her, told her she could stay inside as long as she didn’t come upstairs. I mentioned how enamored I was with her. Every fiber of her accordion soul bewitched me.

She was still there the next day, but no longer starfished in a sullen spotlight. She nestled herself between the wall and one of the copper pipes. I told her I would pray to whatever god we shared that she would find the strength to return home. She was gone the next day.

I think she could tell that even though I was in love with her, she petrified me. Her size vibrated my head, webbing schemas between neurons I had long deserted. I could not determine if it was panic or excitement. The two feel less like a difference and more like a distance.

After a few days, I figured she had moved on. I periodically revisited our meeting place with a sliver of hope she might return. Yet, I was relieved when she wasn’t there. I knew the house didn’t offer her much. My body was repossessed to understand her. I started reading about her diet, ecosystems, and sex life. Turns out, fishing spiders are a species of running spider, meaning they do not spin webs. Rather, they ambush their prey. They prefer cold and moist environments. Male fishing spiders spontaneously die after mating, and the females snack on the corpse.

Just about the time I had forgotten about her, she reappeared, tucked in the corner of the ceiling at the threshold of the basement and upstairs. My spine shivered. I did not expect to find her here, to see me like this.

“I told you, you could live here if you stayed downstairs,” I said.

But technically, she hadn’t yet crossed the border.

Dare I say, she looked cute, her legs puckered together like four engorged limbs instead of eight spindly ones. She was pushing her limits, and I needed to establish some boundaries. I asked my boyfriend to evict her with a yardstick. He nudged her from behind, and she retaliated by contorting herself into a pinhead-sized hole.

“Well, we’ll have to wait for her to crawl out,” he said.

I made him check every hour, and I checked every thirty minutes in between. You could still see the tips of two legs crowning at the hole’s edge. One day went by, we slept, another day, and by the next afternoon, she had emerged. My boyfriend tried a different approach, caressing her with the yardstick from behind instead of in front. You see, since fishing spiders do not spin webs to trap their prey, they must have excellent vision. She saw him regardless of where he came from, and this time she was pissed. She raised her front legs, her mandibles outstretched. I could tell you she hissed, and you’d believe me. She started rushing up the stick, nearly reaching his hand.

“WOW! She’s fast!” He gasped.

“Let go!” I shouted.

He did not slam the stick but instead lofted it into the air. It fell like a robin after snapping its neck on a window. She skittered off, but not far. We cornered her, trapped her in a not-vintage, vintage-looking Coca-Cola glass, and slid some old tax documents underneath. She was so big and so strong, you could hear the glass chime every time she tried to break free.

I was less scared of her when she was imprisoned in the glass. Her features were magnified, two onyx orbs swallowing me in. I crawl from her eyes’ edge, and my knees buckle. She could ask me to borrow money, tell me she's going to get a job soon, remind me how scared I am, ask me to hide the dead body of her lover, and I’d do it all.

“Time to let her go,” my boyfriend says.

I followed him out of the house, down the driveway, to the stream that parallels the road. We spotted a crayfish, some minnows, and even a few carnivorous pitcher plants.

“She’ll be much happier out here,” he sang. As if arachnids recognize emotion.

“She’s much more intelligent than that,” I corrected him.