Free Spiderkid by Claude Lalumiere Page B

my comics, and getting rid of all my spider stuff if they discovered that Marie and I ever did as much as exchange another email. And Marie’s parents were always stricter than mine; I can only imagine how bad it was for her. I haven’t even spoken to her since then. I hear she has a boyfriend now.
    I dress entirely in black, and I clasp a gold chain around my neck. It’s a handmade necklace by an African artist; on it hangs a jewelled effigy of Nyiko, the heroic spider god of Cameroon whose mythic adventures inspired Steve Rand to create Spiderkid. Marie gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.
    I weep a little, and the eyeliner runs.
    Shit. I have to redo it.
    I really need to go out and talk to some new people. I’m stuck in a sad, nostalgic rut tonight, and I hate it.
    It’s retro trip-hop night at The Fly’s Joint. I get a beer and sit at the bar. I recognize a few faces from campus, but nobody I know. That’s good and bad. I’m dying to have a conversation, but I don’t initiate contact easily. I’m so tired of seeing the same reflection in familiar eyes, though, and I want to meet someone new.
    By my second sip of beer, I’m already feeling depressed. The place is full of people, laughing, drinking, dancing, and I feel like a pile of toxic waste polluting everything that comes near me. The space between me and everyone else in the club expands, isolating me; even the music starts to sound muffled and distant . . .
    . . . And I see them playing pool; immediately my sour mood evaporates, and I’m focused, interested, fascinated. The man is Asian, probably Chinese: he’s tall, with broad shoulders, a squarish face, and black hair tied back in a pony tail. The woman is white, with wavy hair coming down to her shoulder blades, streaked in multiple colours. They’re both dressed in black: he’s wearing shorts and a loose tank top; she’s wearing a short skirt with a bra top. Spiders cover their well-defined bodies: their legs, their backs, their arms, their faces . . .
    My throat feels desperately dry, and I quickly down the rest of my beer. Then I walk toward them; I can’t take my eyes off their bodies, their tattoos.
    When I reach the pool table, they’re both facing away from me, concentrating on the game. Boldly, I say hello — but they take no notice.
    They might not have registered that I was speaking to them. It’s so noisy they might not have heard me at all. So I just stand there watching them play, nervously fiddling with my necklace, biting my lips, hoping for eye contact.
    They’re both very good players, pulling off complicated and daring calls. Five shots later, the man notices me and nods his head in greeting, smiling warmly. His eyes widen when he notices the Nyiko pendant around my neck.
    He touches the woman’s shoulder and whispers to her, pointing at me.
    She turns around — I gasp, seeing her face clearly for the first time. “Marie.”
    And I faint.
    I’m lying on my back, and I feel the weight of a hand on my stomach, a warm breath brushing against my ear. I open my eyes, and I don’t recognize where I am. I jump out of bed, alarmed.
    And then I hear my name. I recognize her voice, even though it’s deeper now, more confident. On the bed there’s Marie, her makeup smeared by tears. She says, “I visit your Spiderkid website all the time, you know.”
    I start crying. I don’t know how I managed to spend these past six years without her.
    I’m back on the bed, and we’re kissing, our tongues hungrily probing each other’s mouths, our hands impatiently tugging at each other’s clothes. Marie touches my neck, and her fingers fall on the pendant. She takes her mouth away from mine, and she looks at Nyiko, tenderly caressing the icon. She lifts it and slides her tongue on my collarbone, on the sensitive skin of my neck.
    Soon we’re naked. Marie is naked. I stand