She always hated them. The eight legs and hairy bodies, the way they move. Everything about spiders repelled her.
Aversion therapy worked to where she grew to like them. She’d entertain friends by letting a tarantula crawl on her arm while they watched in fascinated horror. It gave her confidence, poise.
She tells me all this as we sit at the bar, strangers just meeting. She’s damned attractive in her way. At last call I make my move.
Her apartment is dark as I follow her in. Large hazy shapes hang in the dim room. I hear the door lock click.