The Typing Pool

The Huntsman rested wearily against the cool wall of her bathroom. He waited in the dark wondering if age had mellowed her. He slowly massaged the stump of his leg and contemplated the pale blue negligee he had seen draped across her bed. The basic human form was female. Desirable. Maleness, he mused, was a birth defect.

There was no maleness in her room. Just him. His belly swollen; a defect of sorts, compensating for a limb long gone. He waited. He enjoyed the waiting period but soon she would come. Night had already fallen.

She was a creature of ritual and her bathroom was the sequestered place for her evening rite. He edged closer to the light switch; she may brush against him when she touched it. No smile toyed with his lips. He waited, knowing that when she saw him she would cry out.

He would move then. Toward her or up the wall. Probably up the wall where she couldn’t reach. Then he would crawl across the ceiling and watch as she trembled, her knees buckling, calling for help, paralised with fear at his misshapen, seven legged arachnid body. The Huntsman waited, in the dark, by the light switch, on the cool wall of her bathroom.