The Loneliness of the Spider

Chapter 7

I slip a hand under my t-shirt and scratch nervously. I would like to stri off to my underwear and show my bare and dilated belly. Swear, pick on someone. Because the days go by and I’m growing old like a dog. When I was young, women found me attractive, maybe even handsome. There is very little left of the lady’s man of the past. The one that has survived has found a foothold on the frame of a gray and gloomy soul. A pair of worn socks hung out to dry. I take a couple of steps in the room. I go back to studying the trajectories of the fly. All of a sudden it ends up straight in the web. Bingo! The spectacle of life and death. It begins to squirm, to beat its wings. The spider is hanging from the thread like a grim avenging angel. I think that perhaps, without too much preamble, I could take the lighter out of my pocket and drag it into the world of darkness. I watch it with a melancholy glitter in my pupil. The predator risks being preyed upon. We stay like this, each with their own ideas stewing in their heads. Then Giulia breaks the spell. She heads to the bathroom. She leaves the door open. Water flows into the sink, a piece of paper flies into the bowl. Then she goes to bed. I join her. She has a book in her hand, open above her face. A strip of fake blood drips down the glossy cover.

I snort.

"What"s the matter?"

"The book."

"What"s wrong with it?"

"Puah!"

"Did you come after me for this?"

"What a cover..."

I chuckle.

"It"s tacky," I add.

I am at the height of my arrogance. Giulia doesn’t seem to suffer from it, though, she is immune to it. I am the beast. And she is the beauty. It is a tried and tested relationship, ours.

"Those who flee from bad taste end up in the cold," she says.

She looks at me over the top of her reading glasses. She doesn’t speak. She tastes victory.

"Who said that?"

"Neruda."

"Neruda?"

"Yes."

"s**t!"

I hate people who use aphorisms to plead their case. It is not right to have Neruda, Wilde or anyone else in the clique of the know-it-alls feather your own nest. It is an act of plain and simple cowardice. I retreat into myself, I sulk. I go back to the other room. I check on the spider. I go closer. I give it a swat and crush it against the wall. I clean myself on the leg of my pants.