From time to time, little brown spiders rappel from the ceiling tiles above my head, silently appearing so close to my face that they are initially out of focus. Their lives usually end shortly thereafter, sandwiched in a reflexive handclap of disproportionate force accompanied by a spontaneous and incoherent utterance involving the word “dominion.” However, one made it to the seemingly safe shelter of my keyboard this week. As the spider scurries beneath the gauntlet of constantly clicking keys like a tourist plopped into a minefield, I wonder what it must be thinking—if spiders think, that is. I do hope it escapes unscathed. I don’t want spider guts in my Cherry Blue switches, and I’m starting to feel a creeping empathy. I’ve certainly felt trapped under someone else’s keyboard before, unable to detect a pattern to avoid the impact, not knowing when the story will end, when the typing will stop so I can escape.
I’ll still kill the spider, of course.