Can I have a bite?

Please? Just a little nibble. I promise, I won’t take much. You’ll still have most left over after I’m done. I’m ever so hungry, and you, why, you have the most delicious looking spread around…

Why, I apologize. Certainly, I must beg your pardon. In no way did I mean to imply that I think of you as food. I admit, my choice of working was in poor taste.

Oh my! I’ve done it again. Once more, mister Bluebottle, please accept my apologies. It is in my way my intention to continue to suggest that you are mine to own, to taste, to eat, or anything of the like. How should I, a poor Trapdoor Spider from the wrong side of the room, ever even think to presume that I would ever rise to your level? You, Sir, are clearly the high of the society, and it should be, as you say, quite forthright of me to make such a presumption. I was only begging your forgiveness for my earlier outburst, which, too, presumed much too high a status and standard for myself, and far too low a social status for one so esteemed as yourself. For that I must beg your pardon, and I dare ask your forgiveness once more. Should you deign to grant me with such a blessing, I would, no doubt, be in your debt, for all of the foreseeable meals of the future.

Oh, my! I’ve done it again. Dearly, truly sorry, I am, I continue to put one or the other or yet another of my legs in my mouth, cumbersome and clumsy as it may be to do so, and I would not fault you, dear and good sir, were you to take your leave this very minute from my presence. The fact that you continue to stay does indeed warm my heart immensely. I shall, certainly, hope to find some time to repast you…

Goodness! Would you look at that? Now I’ve done and gone and done it again! Dear me, I don’t know what has come over me. I simply cannot get eating off my mind. You know how it is, my good sir. You must have had a similar occurrence at least once in your good life, of months and months long it is, such that you, too, recognize the futility of attempting to avoid the topic which weighs on your mind. You try, and try, and try, but every time, try as you might, you cannot eliminate the thought pre-occupying your spirit. For, it is as if an invading army has taken camp within between your ears, and their buglemaster continues to play the same chorus, over and over and over, incessant, such that you would rather poke the insides of your head out than listen to one more repetition. So it is with my own experience at the moment, I am afraid. “Eat him,” comes the though, and I do my best To punter, No, he is much to special. “Eat him!” No, I cannot do that to a member of such an esteemed family.

“EAT HIM!” The voice continues, pounding a drumbeat that bounces of the inside of my skull and ricochets across my eardrums, that sets up a chorus line and the buglemaster not only plays, he has recruited half a dozen others to join him, so that there is no more space between the words, it is one perpetual burden, one incessant command, one impossible to ignore dictum –

EATHIMEATHIMEATHIMIAEATHEIMEATHIMEATIHIEIATHEATIMEHIMEATHIMEATHIMEATIEAHTIMEIAHTIEMAHITIEMATHIEMEATHIEMAEATHIMEEAHTEIAEHAIEMAETHIMEHAIEMTEIHAEIMETH.

So, my good sir, what would you do, if you were me? Would you, if it could possibly be, eat yourself? or would you walk away from such a lovely, tempting meal, on a count of social status, and privilege, and power?

How should I decide too? I must admit, watching you struggle these last minutes with those bonds I strung not half an hour ago has certainly whetted whatever appetite I came to you with.

And, while this has been an interesting excuse for a conversation (I must admit, you’ve been awfully quiet this whole time, wondrous thing these silken gags I’ve learned so weave, aren’t they?), I must say, I do believe that they time has come to move our relationship forward. No longer shall we be equals, you, over there, helpless before my strong web, and me, over here, helpless before the grand insectual society. No, the time for parity has ended, and thus, it is time for me, and my kind, to regain our position as primary in the elite world of the dirty, dusty attic rafter. With that, Sir Bluebottle, I wish you good day.

May I have a bite? Don’t mind if I do.