My Friend Charlotte

We met in the shower. I saw her resting inside the porcelain bathtub, her willowy eight legs attaching her to just below the faucet. I can't kill her. I take a fluff of toilet tissue and scoop her up. Her legs flail in defense.

"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you," I whisper to her.

I can tell she's not on board with the situation. I flick her into a corner of the bathroom, afraid I'd damaged her delicate legs. But the daddy-long-legs spider I've named Charlotte, not that I can decipher arachnid gender, scurried back to the tub, luckily with normal spider gait. I advised her that it would be a bad idea.

Pulling the shower curtain closed, I turned on the faucets and adjusted the water. Much too hot for a spider. As I shampooed my hair, I glanced down at the sudsy water circling the drain.

"Stay away, Charlotte," I said. "I can't help you if you get sucked into this vortex."

I rinsed off and shut the water.

"Charlotte?"

As if she was going to answer.

After wrapping myself in a towel, I peeked over the edge of the tub. Where is she? I thought. No Charlotte. I stepped out of the tub, and there she was! She had spun a new web in the corner between the toilet and tub.

"That was fast," I said, relieved she had not spiraled down the drain. I live alone in an apartment two weeks a month, and I was enjoying her company.

In and out of the bathroom several times a day, I check on her. She seems satisfied with her new digs. She stays there the whole next day. What does she eat? I'm starting to get concerned about her. At night I turn on the light. She doesn't move.

"Goodnight, Charlotte," I say softly.

The next morning, she is gone. I sigh. Normally I respond to spiders with "ick", but not with her. I miss her. But when I go to the other side of the bathroom to blow dry my hair, I see her high up in the corner above me. I wave to her. With all those eyes she has, I'm sure she sees multiple fingers.

Clever girl! She's spun a nice cozy niche. I stare at her. She's not moving. I gently blow on her. Charlotte wiggles her legs.

"Good morning," I say. "See you later."

I returned from work today and hurried to the bathroom. Charlotte is gone. I search the bathroom. Only empty webs remain. I don't know where she went, or if she's alive, but every time I go into the bathroom, I look for her. She was a good friend. I hope she comes back.