It does not budge. The breeze from the ceiling fan tickles her bare leg and she kicks at the quilt again, forgetting that her right foot is still tangled in the 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheet. The quilt does not budge, but she does. Momentum from her kick spins her shoulders off the mattress and she finds herself wedged between the nightstand and the heavy, oh, so firm, Sealy; head down with an excellent view of the electric power strip where her cell phone recharger is plugged in for afternoon revitalization.
It is then that she notices that her arms are also tangled in the sheet. Except for that devilish left foot, pretty much all of her is either tangled up in bedclothes or stuck between the antique mahogany nightstand with the weighty marble top and the oh, so firm, Sealy.
It is then that she notices the spider, poised in observation of her right eyeball, about 3 inches below her cheek, clinging to the lovely 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheet. The cotton sheet that wraps her lovingly and holds her tightly like a beau from the old movies.
The spider does not look pleased. Neither is she and she tries to turn her head, ever so slightly, to inhale quietly and then to exhale forcefully to blow the spider away.
This forceful exhalation of breath works momentarily. The spider swings backwards into an arc that sends it down again and beyond its starting point. It swings like an acrobat with a short skitter up its web and lands, perhaps, in her hair.
At least she thinks it landed in her hair. She can't see it and doesn't feel it. But she knows. She knows it has landed just above that eyebrow in that soft patch of hair that always falls into her eyes. That soft patch of hair that she always has to comb back with her hand.
Except her hand, well, her hands, both of them, are stuck with her arms, are tangled in the soft Egyptian cotton bed sheet; she is wrapped in the 600 threadcount so gently, so tightly in that sheet. That sheet is holding her wedged upside down between the antique mahogany nightstand and the oh, so firm, Sealy.
Her arms! Her hands! She struggles to be free. She slips further down between the nightstand the mattress. And now, she can feel the wayward spider making its way around her head, in-between the hairs down to her neck.
She kicks with that devilish left foot! The rest of her follows the momentum and she tumbles the rest of the way off of the bed. Her head and shoulders are still somewhat stuck in that no man's land between the nightstand and the mattress.
Wiggling and wiggling, she is able to inch backwards on the plush rose carpet until she is no longer stuck between that hateful, yet oh, so firm, Sealy and that obnoxious mahogany nightstand. She is able to disengage from those nasty 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets. She rubs her cheek. It feels bruised. She sees that her cell phone is no longer plugged into the electric power strip and is blinking with disorientation. She notices that she is still on the floor, lying on her stomach on the plush rose carpet. It welcomes her.
Edging to her knees, she rises to a crouching position and decides to climb back into bed. It is a very nice, oh, so firm, Sealy, after all. And she has not finished her nap.
Inching up, her eyes become level with the top of the bed. There, poised in comfort on the soft 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheet, is the spider. They make eye contact. And they know.
The spider jumps. She slaps.
Later as the washer chugs the soft 600 threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets with the hand-stitched heirloom quality quilt around and around with detergent designed for delicate washables, she replugs the cell phone into the electric surge protector.
Something is terribly wrong as it spits fire, sparkling blue tidbits, around her hand, the plug, and the oh, so firm, Sealy. Tiny brown burnt spots appear like magic on the tufted sueded covering.
Tiny brown burnt spots that are suddenly easy to see next to the tiny brown spiders marching over the mattress toward her. Marching from the edge of the antique mahogany nightstand onto the edge of the bed, onto the mattress and toward her singed fingertips.
The plush rose carpet again welcomes her tush as she sits backwards away from the bed.
It's five o'clock in the afternoon. It is not a very good time for a nap.
