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The spider climbs up Bronco’s outstretched arm in that strange way all insects do; moving more like a shifting geometric shape than a living creature. A thing that looks dead to you, still animated — it’s repulsive. He’s not even looking at you, focused only on his Queenie, ugly grin ear to ear. You carefully consider what kind of man Bronco wants you to be right now. Clamp your hands over your ears, squeal, timid and helpless as a baby deer. And always mix some reassurance in. In your eyes, his every breath is endlessly impressive.
— W-woah, Queenie is a big girl, isn’t she?
— Nah, she’s actually average for a female. Still a big ass spider though.
— Yeah, she’s so cool. I bet I could never take care of such an exotic pet, Bronco!
— Man, you take care of an actual fucking elephant for a living, I think you’d ace it.
He’s still not looking at you. That earnest, childish adoration (for an oversized pest, of all things) doesn’t fit right on his angular mug.
— Oooh, but Azea is such a prissy girl! She doesn’t even let me wash her sometimes, just throws hay at me until I leave her alone. I bet Queenie here really loves you!
At this, he bursts out laughing, shooting hand so perfectly steady the spider isn’t the slightest bit disturbed.
— She probably doesn’t even know I exist. Their brains are too tiny to feel love.
The fuzzy insect body springs to life when Bronco’s face gets too close. It raises its front legs and backs off — a defensive pose, judging from how Bronco coos at it and finally lowers his hand back into the terrarium.
— Why would you even have it then?
You want to bite your tongue off when you realize, seconds later, how cold that question sounds. His best friend isn’t supposed to question him. You can’t ever let Bronco think you’re cruel.
— Well, I still love her even if she doesn’t. I’m still happy when her needs are met. I didn’t get her because I need someone to love me, I got her because she’s a huge ass spider. Oh, she does a little dance after she kills a roach or something, it’s adorable!
Later that night, while transcribing chess moves into braille, you chew on this like stale taffy. You carefully consider what kind of man would do that: take care, so tenderly, of a predator incapable of loving him back. Pour all that adoration down a bottomless, empty pit.
Weeks later, the answer comes to you one letter too late.