SmokeLong Quarterly

On the fifth floor of a medical complex I sit in an office watching a tiny spider outside the window. It clings to the frame, buffeted by wind, but nevertheless spins an ornate web across a corner of the glass.

The stalwart desk is oak, as glossy as his slate-gray eyes above the crisp, white coat. His lips move slowly, pink and moist, mouthing salvation in a hushed voice, like a Baptist preacher tipping me backwards, headlong into dark water until I can’t breathe.

I push through, seeking light, sucking air, emerge. The first thing I see is the window. The spider lurches, lifted by a gust, sways on a single thread. Its spindly legs unfurl, then curl, before it drops.