The other day I looked up and saw a single strand of a spider’s web, an arc drooping under the weight of the steam that was still in the air from my shower.
Without thinking I reached up and flicked it loose from the tiles. Light was coming in through the window so it was illuminated as it descended, artful as steam coming off a skillet.
The descent of spider’s silk is nothing like steam curling up from a mess of sautéing shrimp, of course. Steam breaks into the air in unchoreographed swirls. That spider’s web, despite its lazy fall, was gnashing at the atmosphere, resisting gravity. Every molecule putting out a set of heels and digging in to try and stop, stop, stop.
