What do you suppose it all means? Helen asked. |
Alfio Giuffrida, Binari exp2 (2021)
One evening beside the fireplace glowing warm and dark, Helen spoke quietly to Art without looking over her sewing needles: Where have you been going these days, so early in the morning?
Art carefully set down his bugle, the last bittersweet notes of a suite he was composing still lingering in the air, and considered.
He said: I have to poop.
I don’t want to disturb your sleep so early in the morning, he said, so I go downstairs in the dark with the little light from my phone to the bathroom, and I sit down there. It takes time. My bowels are restless but not awake.
You know, said Art, when you get up in the dark like that, it’s like wandering through the universe’s subconscious. I turn on the light in the bathroom, he added, reassuringly.
That’s just being smart, said Helen.
Art nodded, and continued:
Last weekend when I was sitting there I noticed a daddy long-legs spider building a web underneath the doorstop across from me. The daddy long-legs was almost white, and tiny, except for its titular legs. It must have been working on its web in the dark all night. The whole infrastructure seemed to be there.
The spider was hanging upside down, who knows why. It must have been tired. I guess they prefer to work in darkness. Maybe that’s why they need eight eyes? I finished my business fast as possible and left, in order to be respectful.
The next morning I wasn’t thinking about Longlegs when I flipped on the bathroom light and sat on the pot, but when I did, I saw he had completed an impressive web.
I don’t know why I think Longlegs is a he, by the way, said Art. How would I know?
Helen nodded sagely. You can’t ask them, she said. It’s rude.
The web spread in both directions beneath the doorstop, said Art, or so I thought. I couldn’t see the gossamer threads Longlegs had spun. He seemed to float in the open space between the doorstop and the floor. His long legs were scrunched up underneath him, and I wondered if he might be dead.
But if he wasn’t dead—and I believed he wasn’t—then I wondered why such a powerful creature would render itself so crushable. As I evacuated my bowels, I pushed a breath toward the web. Longlegs shivered and stretched his spindled legs out, touching the invisible.
Have you ever done that? asked Art. Touched the invisible?
I touch what I want to, Helen said.
Art said, I wondered why a spider would spin a web in a half-bath in the lower level of a house. The chances of getting flies caught in the web for dinner are minimal. As I did the deed there on the toilet, it struck me that I don’t understand much about spiders. But I also thought that, moving forward, visiting Longlegs in this way would be a pleasant good morning ritual for him and me.
The next morning, I was shocked to see another spider in Longlegs’ web. A much larger spider, very black. It looked like a Darth to me. I puffed breaths out across the room from the toilet to the doorstop. Longlegs and Darth both trembled and stretched awake. Darth had greater leg-reach. I blew on them some more to see what would happen. I was offended that Darth would set up shop on the web Longlegs had worked hard to create, and annoyed that Longlegs would allow this to happen, unless he was eyeballing Darth as his next meal, which I doubt, given the size and leg-reach issues.
Longlegs and Darth tussled and flicked and poked their legs at each other. Can you imagine minding eight multijointed limbs of your own, much less fighting eight more from another spider? Maybe they weren’t fighting, though. Maybe it was a mating ritual. Maybe that’s just how they talk. I don’t know much about spiders, as I mentioned previously.
Sixty-four high-fives, said Helen.
Art said: Imagine my surprise the next morning when I saw that Longlegs was gone and only Darth was perched in the web. All self-satisfied. I blew on him and he woke up, stretched his disgusting legs across the web and then up toward me. It seemed like taunting. I won’t be intimidated. But I understand the ways of nature or at least the Way of the Bathroom, so I let it ride.
I believed the impenetrable stench I left behind from your schnitzel dinner last night was punishment enough.
And the next morning, Longlegs was back and Darth was gone. I blew, but Longlegs barely moved. The morning after that, the web was empty. No Longlegs or Darth, just the web, which I could see now because it was collecting dust.
And that’s it, said Art. I’m there every morning, looking at this empty web growing limp and gray, and I don’t know what happened.
What do you suppose it all means? Helen asked.
Dunno, said Art. Could be nothing. Could be everything. I’m looking into it.
Art went on: Did you know daddy long-legs aren’t even spiders? They only have six legs and two eyes. That’s all the eyes Longlegs needs. Spiders eat bugs but I think Longlegs was a vegetarian. Unless he’s full of Darth, but Darth didn’t look like some pushover. Spiders sleep but they don’t have eyelids. And even though they have eight eyes they’re almost blind, which begs the question of why not just have fewer, better-vision eyes. And here’s another thing: spiders don’t have noses, but they do have a sense of smell. And I’ll bet Longlegs does too, so.
Helen waited unblinkingly. And so, what? she asked.
So maybe lay off the schnitzel?
Aw, said Helen, tilting her head and smiling at him. You made a joke. C’mere, you.
Helen unfurled her arms, wrapped them around Art, drew him gently in, all-encompassing.
And she ate him.
Art carefully set down his bugle, the last bittersweet notes of a suite he was composing still lingering in the air, and considered.
He said: I have to poop.
I don’t want to disturb your sleep so early in the morning, he said, so I go downstairs in the dark with the little light from my phone to the bathroom, and I sit down there. It takes time. My bowels are restless but not awake.
You know, said Art, when you get up in the dark like that, it’s like wandering through the universe’s subconscious. I turn on the light in the bathroom, he added, reassuringly.
That’s just being smart, said Helen.
Art nodded, and continued:
Last weekend when I was sitting there I noticed a daddy long-legs spider building a web underneath the doorstop across from me. The daddy long-legs was almost white, and tiny, except for its titular legs. It must have been working on its web in the dark all night. The whole infrastructure seemed to be there.
The spider was hanging upside down, who knows why. It must have been tired. I guess they prefer to work in darkness. Maybe that’s why they need eight eyes? I finished my business fast as possible and left, in order to be respectful.
The next morning I wasn’t thinking about Longlegs when I flipped on the bathroom light and sat on the pot, but when I did, I saw he had completed an impressive web.
I don’t know why I think Longlegs is a he, by the way, said Art. How would I know?
Helen nodded sagely. You can’t ask them, she said. It’s rude.
The web spread in both directions beneath the doorstop, said Art, or so I thought. I couldn’t see the gossamer threads Longlegs had spun. He seemed to float in the open space between the doorstop and the floor. His long legs were scrunched up underneath him, and I wondered if he might be dead.
But if he wasn’t dead—and I believed he wasn’t—then I wondered why such a powerful creature would render itself so crushable. As I evacuated my bowels, I pushed a breath toward the web. Longlegs shivered and stretched his spindled legs out, touching the invisible.
Have you ever done that? asked Art. Touched the invisible?
I touch what I want to, Helen said.
Art said, I wondered why a spider would spin a web in a half-bath in the lower level of a house. The chances of getting flies caught in the web for dinner are minimal. As I did the deed there on the toilet, it struck me that I don’t understand much about spiders. But I also thought that, moving forward, visiting Longlegs in this way would be a pleasant good morning ritual for him and me.
The next morning, I was shocked to see another spider in Longlegs’ web. A much larger spider, very black. It looked like a Darth to me. I puffed breaths out across the room from the toilet to the doorstop. Longlegs and Darth both trembled and stretched awake. Darth had greater leg-reach. I blew on them some more to see what would happen. I was offended that Darth would set up shop on the web Longlegs had worked hard to create, and annoyed that Longlegs would allow this to happen, unless he was eyeballing Darth as his next meal, which I doubt, given the size and leg-reach issues.
Longlegs and Darth tussled and flicked and poked their legs at each other. Can you imagine minding eight multijointed limbs of your own, much less fighting eight more from another spider? Maybe they weren’t fighting, though. Maybe it was a mating ritual. Maybe that’s just how they talk. I don’t know much about spiders, as I mentioned previously.
Sixty-four high-fives, said Helen.
Art said: Imagine my surprise the next morning when I saw that Longlegs was gone and only Darth was perched in the web. All self-satisfied. I blew on him and he woke up, stretched his disgusting legs across the web and then up toward me. It seemed like taunting. I won’t be intimidated. But I understand the ways of nature or at least the Way of the Bathroom, so I let it ride.
I believed the impenetrable stench I left behind from your schnitzel dinner last night was punishment enough.
And the next morning, Longlegs was back and Darth was gone. I blew, but Longlegs barely moved. The morning after that, the web was empty. No Longlegs or Darth, just the web, which I could see now because it was collecting dust.
And that’s it, said Art. I’m there every morning, looking at this empty web growing limp and gray, and I don’t know what happened.
What do you suppose it all means? Helen asked.
Dunno, said Art. Could be nothing. Could be everything. I’m looking into it.
Art went on: Did you know daddy long-legs aren’t even spiders? They only have six legs and two eyes. That’s all the eyes Longlegs needs. Spiders eat bugs but I think Longlegs was a vegetarian. Unless he’s full of Darth, but Darth didn’t look like some pushover. Spiders sleep but they don’t have eyelids. And even though they have eight eyes they’re almost blind, which begs the question of why not just have fewer, better-vision eyes. And here’s another thing: spiders don’t have noses, but they do have a sense of smell. And I’ll bet Longlegs does too, so.
Helen waited unblinkingly. And so, what? she asked.
So maybe lay off the schnitzel?
Aw, said Helen, tilting her head and smiling at him. You made a joke. C’mere, you.
Helen unfurled her arms, wrapped them around Art, drew him gently in, all-encompassing.
And she ate him.
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Eric Melbye is an associate professor of creative writing at Miami University Regionals, a writer, and former editor of Segue online literary journal. He has published fiction and poetry in several online and print venues, as well as a novel, Tru (Flame Books, 2007).
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