A seven-legged spider and his reflection live on my bathroom mirror. With all the ants and earwigs around, I haven't the heart to kill my natural defender. He keeps the creeps away, so I leave him be. We have an unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.
He's always perched in the top right corner of the mirror when I get up in the morning. I talk to him as I put my makeup on,
"Why can't I just get this winged eyeliner right the first time?"
"What about this lipstick? Nope, nope. Definitely not."
"Oh no! Wrinkles!"
Sometimes he walks across my reflection as if to say hello. I flash him a smile.
He doesn't judge me when I play on my phone on the toilet. He watches me shave my armpits. He waves a leg when I clean out the sink. He spins his web when I brush my teeth before bed. He's always there.
He's there when I drag the bodies in.
He's there when I wash the blood out from under my fingernails.
He's there when I hang up the severed limbs to drain over the tub.
The constant companion. The silent witness. He has seen it all, but he offers no judgment, calls no police. We live our lives by that unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.
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