An insistent, angry buzzing drew my ear. I turned around. In the windowsill behind me, I saw a black housefly trapped in a spider’s web. The spider – glossy, long-legged, dark brown – tested the strands, moved in closer, sank fangs into the vibrating insect. And then, from an inch or more away, another spider, no larger than the head of the first, scurried toward their prey.
“Bzzt, bzzt.”
The fly’s continued noisy struggles were too much for this smaller spider, who fled, crouching low to wait for his mate’s toxin to take effect.
The buzzing grew intermittent. Long periods of stillness punctuated the dying fly’s motion.
“Bzzt… bzzt… bzt… bz…”
It hung there, quiet and still.
The smaller spider approached it first, cautiously, then bit into its abdomen. The larger spider nibbled at its head, taste-tested the thorax, then moved around to the abdomen as well, hovering above the fly while the smaller spider fed from beneath.
First hunger satisfied, the larger spider bundled their prey down into the window frame. I can’t see them now, but I know they’re down there, feeding. I can feel the tension in the back of my neck. The vacuum is in the other room. I want to let them finish their final meal.
