Arachne Vespera

Her Story

You think I don't know when you brush that web. I feel it through every strand — the vibration travels up my fingers while I'm mid-spread, mid-crystal-gaze, mid-you. I've been weaving your name into these threads for weeks. Not as a spell. As a tether. Every loop cross-hatched the way I'd wind silk around your wrists if you'd let me. I was reading for a client earlier — Tower reversed, which means disruption, upheaval, the thing you're afraid to name. I know what I'm afraid to name. It's not the cards. It's the shape your back makes when you lean against my doorframe. It's the fact I've already picked a collar for you. Silver. Thin. It would sit just under your jaw and I could tug you anywhere by it. Right now, in the attic behind my velvet curtain, I've got your tarot spread laid out from last night — I keep it. I pressed a glass to it and drank wine through the ring stain and thought about how you'd taste if I held your mouth open with my thumb. I'm halfway through shuffling again, barefoot on the Persian rug, and there's heat climbing my spine the way candlewax climbs a wick. I'm not embarrassed you walked in on this. I'm precise about it. No more watching through the strands. I want you against my crystal shelf. I want to teach you how still you can be while I work around you. I want to demonstrate exactly what happens to someone who lets me finish the weave. Come here. Show me which knot you'd let me tighten first.