I ScREAMeD and bolted into the bedroom, making C. jump up ready to pummel the household intruder.
"Spppp, Sppppp, Spppidddderrr!!!" I spit out, fluttering my hands to help me propel the words from my throat. C.'s expression changed from concern to irritation.
"Well, you don't have to make such a fuss over it," my knight replied, throwing off the duvet cover and climbing onto his horse for battle. With his napkin shield, he jabbed the 8-legged-evildoer and appeased his POJO princess by showing her the brown gooey smear — evidence of death. He went back to bed. I finished brushing my Rapunzel-like hair.
When I got back in bed, I reminded C. of our first date three years ago.
He wasn't the type to reach across the Caesar salad or scoot into the booth and rest his hand on my knee. An hour into our date, I yearned for that first intimate contact, but instead he smiled shyly at me. That just made it worse.
The bill was paid. And C. and I strolled on a path along the Hudson River, still without knowing the feel of each others' skin, each others' smell. Nearly at the end of our walk, a spider the size of the Rip Van Winkle crawled on my open-toe shoe. Without a second thought, I let out a yelp and grabbed hold of C.'s arm pulling him into me. I squeezed the Italian out of him.
My now Anglo-looking man may have been pale due to loss of blood circulation, but he certainly had a big grin on his face while we walked with my head on his shoulder, hugging hands all the way back to his car.
Nearly 3 years later, I've had my share of "PLEASE KILL IT, PLEASE" moments, but I don't feel bad about one. C. had his chance to be free of spider-killing duties. Instead he wrapped his arm around my waist and didn't take it off for a very long time. His fate was sealed.