I lean over the sink and squint in the mirror. Up all night is doing nothing for my complexion. Well.
Wait. Something moves in my periphery. I step back, look down. A spider (now still) sits in the sink basin. She's large(r than I like). I watch her struggle. Her front legs flail. She slips a little. Closer to the drain. She climbs again, sure-footed for a few steps, then slides. It's an inch to the edge. I could help her. She has eyes but I can't see them.
I hate what I'm going to do. But first I pretend she's not there. I brush my teeth. She draws her legs around herself when she senses the water running. I shiver.
I replace my toothbrush in the holder. I dry my hands. I crumple a wad of toilet paper and scoop her up and squeeze her tight and toss her in and flush. Her.
She can't live in my house. (And anyway it's freezing outside.)
