SPIDER
Photo Courtesy of Julian Gobel
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Spider
MacQueen’s Quinterly published my flash fiction, Spider. You may read it in the journal.Or, here below.A medium-sized spider climbed her husband’s pant leg, his obscenely expensive pant leg. The Brioni suit had cost $4,500. When Preston’s second wife grumbled about the charge on their credit card, he laughed. “Swimming with the big fish now. Got to dress for success.” She and Preston sat close to each other at a table for six, the four other people being potential investors in her husband’s venture capital company, Sage Enterprise. She considered brushing away the spider with her linen napkin. The spider had paused mid-thigh. She easily could reach over but she couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, Preston’s second wife took in the vista before her. A tall glass window looked out on Sydney Harbor; blazing light from a setting sun glimmered off the water, bridge, and opera house. Despite her fatigue, she wished she was sitting in a kayak in the bay right now.She and Preston just had flown in from San Francisco. She felt woozy from jet lag, but Preston had insisted on scheduling the business dinner right after they landed. “It’s all about the early bird and the worm…” She understood what he meant but pictured him more as “the worm.”He had booked a first-class seat for himself, where he’d managed a solid eight hours of sleep. Preston’s second wife had been wedged between two man-spreading word spewers in the economy section. After a while, she gave up on sleep and watched a Discovery documentary called, Nature at Its Deadliest, a film she found grimly entertaining. Her head throbbed. The server slid a beautifully plated appetizer of marinated raw bream in front of her. The smell of fish and vinegar nauseated her. She glanced toward the spider, watching its journey toward Preston’s black Cartier belt. The suspense made her feel slightly more awake. From across the table, Avett Lynch, the least awful of the potential investors, asked her, “What do you think of your husband’s idea to fund this AI-driven healthcare startup?” Preston interjected, “Ha-ha. That’s out of her wheelhouse.” He proceeded to drone on about the financial advantages of using AI.She gritted her teeth. She held an MBA from Michigan State, first in her class. Last year, Preston had hired her straight out of business school after meeting her at a conference. He promised her autonomy, but no opportunities materialized. Instead, he asked her advice, which she produced in the form of succinct, insightful, analyses. Later, she discovered Preston used her work verbatim without crediting her.Three months into the job, both her parents died in a car crash. Preston, older than she by a decade, arrived at her door, nurturing and attentive. “Let me take care of settling the estate.” Over time, Preston insinuated himself into every aspect of her life. She felt raw and vulnerable. His firm, guiding presence steadied her. When he proposed, she accepted, her muddled brain not processing any reservations she normally would have possessed. Three months into the marriage, her mind started to clear. When she realized she’d married a malignant narcissist, Preston’s second wife called a divorce lawyer. The attorney pointed out that if she split up with Preston, the draconian pre-nuptial would leave her penniless. The spider trudged onto Preston’s wrist, crossing directly over his David Yurman diamond cufflinks, a present he’d given himself last Christmas. He’d given her a gift, too. Awash in self-congratulation, he announced, “Babe, I bought us season tickets to the opera, a box seat where we can bring clients.”Opera? Trapped in a small box, schmoozing with vapid clients while listening to screamy music sounded like hell to her. Later,
