Spider

I found a dead spider on my bedroom floor. In the low, table-lamped light I only just made out its bent, broken legs against the carpet, its body the same colour marl. I crouched down over it, watching for a while. I noted the fine hairs on its seven legs and, a few inches away, on its severed eighth. As I watched, I thought I saw it move. Its fragile body was trembling. A few minutes passed as I crouched, transfixed by these slightest of movements, and wondering at each flinch whether it would be the last. Still mistrusting of my sight, I moved my face closer and observed how its limbs were heaving, the movement far more apparent.

 And then it blew away across the carpet. And I understood that it was my breath that had made that dead spider move. For a few minutes it had been living a false life through mine.