  He wanted to know her as soon as he saw her because, unlike his previous girlfriends, she was unafraid of spiders. This may not have been immediately apparent, but it was nevertheless shortly obvious. She stood on the pavement outside his front garden, leaning curiously close to the unidentifiable bushes that boarded the property. He watched from his deckchair, as over and over she swept her left hand over and away from her right arm, stared intently into mid-air, then diligently switched her attention back to the faint, black spot on her right arm.
He moved a little closer to the bushes, pleased that she seemed oblivious to his rightful presence in the garden. Closer inspection confirmed that what had originally masqueraded as a mole, was indeed a spider, of moderate proportion, tapping its legs contentedly upon the skin of her forearm. He could tell she had no fear, disgust or impatience with its presence, but continually offered it her left forefinger as a lifeline, an escape route. He liked her good manners; the spider was a trespasser, but this was pardonable, and he felt that any projection of guilt would be petty, not to mention pointless. “Come on,” (was she aware that she spoke out loud? ), “come on, come on, come on, little one, you’d be much happier on this bush, it is a far more habitual home for you… come on, piss off, you can’t stay on me forever, neither of us should like that!” He contemplated what he should say to her; he wanted her to notice his proximity and bestow her attention on him, rather than the spider (though he hoped that she would welcome his advances, and be rather less keen to part company).
Should he tell a little white lie, and inform her that her little squatter was a money spider and would bring her luck? Or perhaps suggest that they call it Charlotte (he liked this idea, as it not only alerted her to his sensitivity towards children’s literature, but also included him in what was really her dilemma)? Should he be honest and openly admire her untraditional comfort with creepy crawlies, or even confess his own amateurish fascination with the inspect world?
There seemed so many options, so many possibilities for introduction, that he feared that the wrong choice could spell his dismissal – oh to be rejected like a spider! He chewed his lip, silently signed and opened his parched mouth to speak… But oh, too late, too late. Having grown bored of the spider’s stubborn refusal to vacate her body, she cried accusingly, “Oh, don’t you know I have somewhere to be?” and brought her left palm down with a slap onto her forearm and, hence, assured the spiders demise. Her cheeks flushed ambiguously before she flicked the remains into the bushes and carried on her way.
He watched her go in awe, his prefect woman. Grinning inanely, he realised that she did exist, his Eve, his Juliet, no, his Hera. Was it possible, could it be, that there existed a creature, easy on the eye and ear, who not only had no fear of spiders, but also shared his own simple, if not morbid, pleasure in the act of slaying, assassinating, massacring eight legged friends? 
