Ariel Olson / Bête Noire

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Bête Noire

Ariel Olson

Every spider I smash against my windshield reminds me to never park under a tree—

The improbable infuriation of a lone hair looped around two toes inside my sock inside my tied too tight shoes—

If I ever found one in the car god forbid while driving—

I imagine ten cars piled up and there’s mangled metal and maybe flames, interstate shut down for hours and when they finally pull me out, barely conscious and someone asks what happened all I can say for myself is “there was a spider.” And now there is only the burning wreckage of my once beautiful black car—

Sometimes one hair stuck to the back of my shirt, just out of reach and just barely touching the nape of my neck and how the hell can I tell the difference when I’m merging at 62 miles per hour between a fine hair and a fine web or eight prickly legs.