Drapery
Eight legs are practical for lugging suitcases. She creeps down my floral wallpaper, across a labyrinth of wooden frames, over glass bridges, snowy mountains, and starry skies. She scampers over porcelain geometrics in hues of blue, swims foamy waters and stops at a piece of peeling plaster. Bother. She inches her way around Home-Sweet-Home and settles down on my window’s top left. She is adamant. I will not live here for free, so, she weaves me a fine pair of lace curtains.
Dumpers and diggers in pumpkin and carrot dump and dig. I like it better when it is just spider and me. Gigantic arms, capitalist accomplices, scoop the earth and create deep trenches. Bold oranges penetrate the dainty lace.
Hard hats bob up and down, clipboards wade across a thick, gooey space of grey. Spider keeps spinning. Fine curtains become creamy drapes, and she adds tassels for the weekends. That is when the deconstruction and construction take a break, and we can let the sunshine in again, chirps and barks, witness wings flapping, dogs wagging their tails.
I take down the frames. Give them a good spray and wipe, but I will not wash the drapes for I will not kill my friend.
When I die, spider will die, unless the new owners like drapery in spider-weave-white.
Isabelle B.L is a teacher based in France. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Flash Fiction Magazine, Rune Bear, Alternate Route and elsewhere.