If Spiders Could Talk
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We sat in her blue Jetta smoking our favorite
cigarettes and talking about our least favorite things. Her very least was me. I knew the obvious answer was her but instead I mentioned the busy spider above the speedometer. She said the psychic told her I’d say that. She dropped down the visor mirror and started painting her face, glancing at me every so often with veiny-brown eyes. She checked her phone idly. She did that thing where she whips her hair back over the headrest dramatically. Of course this week her hair was jet black again; I didn’t have to ask Miss Cleo about that. She said the psychic (mind you, in assured, relayed speech...mind you, looking off towards the ether) was right about everything. That I was a confused boy mixing potions of love and like. That she thought about women sometimes. That the demon who confronted us wasn’t worried about my bible babble; I’d end up like Father Damien, when her wraps came loose. I said a number of things back at her. The psychic knew, down to third cigarette I was puffing at. In a fury, I scooped up the web and the little spider and put it all in my mouth. She said the psychic said that I would eat the spider along with its web in a fury and that it would be gross. Hearing enough, I turned into a gigantic spider awkwardly crumpled in the front seat, trying not to poison the girl next to me. If I weren’t a spider, I would’ve asked if her precious soothsayer mentioned my current state. She said, this is exactly why I went to the psychic in the first place- you're always doing this sort of thing. |