miss muffet | Metamorphosism

There was this crow and Little Miss Muffet was trying to dig out some beef for it without getting sauce on herself cause she figured it would prefer beef to the wok vegetables or the rice and due to her concentration she didn’t see the spider until she had flipped the beef out into the street where the crow pecked at it and waited for it to cool enough to carry it off.

“Hola, guapa,” said the spider.

“Geeze, you, gah, whoa,” said Little Miss Muffet, fanning herself.

The spider chuckled and chewed on his cigar.

With his mandibles or pedipalps or whatever they are.

Seen up close like that, it was like something out of an old grindhouse scifihorror movie.

“Short story is,” said the spider around his cigar, and shrugged, all eight eyes looking upward theatrically, palms theatrically upward.

“What.” Miss Muffet paused, chopsticks halfway to her mouth with a load of rice from which generic brown sauce dripped.

“Perfection is another word for death. Check a thesaurus: perfection, death, paralysis, stasis, procrastination.”

Miss Muffet glanced at the crow, which was burying the beef under some dead leaves.

“All there ever is, is this moment and doing one little thing after another. One little, imperfect, broken thing after another, again and again and again.”

“Sounds depressing.”

“It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful thing there is. It’s the only thing there is, in fact.”

Little Miss Muffet was trying out the 5:2 diet, and it was a ‘2’ day, is why she was eating cottage cheese. Also, she lived in a cottage so it seemed somehow appropriate.

She sat down on the tuffet and waited.

Somewhere, a clock ticked dog barked truck shifted gears lawnmower buzzed ice cream truck tinkled a song someone hollered at someone else across the street something went BANG airplane flew termites gnawed bees buzzed leaky faucet dripped hearts beat fly bashed its head against window ambient hum hummed.

“Looks good, if you’re into dairy,” said the Spider. Capital S.

“I expect it is a source of lean protein,” said Miss Muffet.

The Spider watched eight different things at once through his eight eyes, arranged in two rows of four.

The Spider watched Miss Muffet, because you can’t be too careful.

The Spider watched a hollyhock sway in the wind outside the window.

The Spider watched shadows moving on the floor.

The Spider watched the fly.

The Spider watched another fly.

The Spider watched the clock.

The Spider watched the soul of an old man leave his body two houses down.

The Spider watched the beating heart of the earth itself.

Miss Muffet finished her lunch.

“I admire your resolve, sticking with the 5:2 diet,” said the Spider.

“It’s actually easy, and plus I’ve lost five pounds already,” said Miss Muffet.

The two of them sat there side-by-side, watching.

“It’s a life-long thing, isn’t it,” sighed Miss Muffet.

“The only alternative is not having a heart,” said the Spider. He spread out five of his eight legs, gesturing everywhere. “And that is no real alternative, in this lovely, lovely universe.”

“We love, and our hearts break, and it hurts, and we love stubbornly on.”

“One eye laughs, and one eye cries,” said the Spider. “At all times. And six watch. One watches humorously, one watches hopefully, one watches without hope. One watches warily, one lovingly, and one objectively.”

“One with joy, one with curiosity, one with suspicion, one with sadness, one with grief, one with elation,” said Miss Muffet. “One with gratitude, one with amazement.”

“That, too,” said the Spider.

Metamorphosism

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