Arachnophobia

In a waiting room, I admired a muted watercolour, skill evident in it's translucent beauty. I stood back and wondered at the age of the artist, surrounded as the watercolour was by children's art.
"Wonderful, isn't it?" A voice interrupted.
"Yes, it is indeed." I turned to reply to the voice and stepped back involuntarily when I saw the creature who had crawled up beside me: a spider, tall, dressed in black, and toting more pointy black objects; she appeared to lean back as she spoke, as if ready to jump, her eyes shining.
"I was just wondering about the artist's age," I couldn't look away from spider woman's eyes. She adjusted some of her spindly possessions, and cocked her head to the side, moved in on the painting, and looked at the signature.
"She's about twelve and she's the daughter of a local artist." I smiled at the revelation and admired the painting once more, the sea creatures in the painting seemed alive, it really was very good, for any age.

Spider woman scuttled back toward me and cocked her head, her eyes catching mine again,
"It's nice for a girl to have a talent for painting, don't you think?" I laughed, because in this age that seemed such a fucking stupid thing to say. But her spidery eyes narrowed at my laughter, and I realised that spider-woman was not having a laugh, she was serious; she was from another planet, or at the least, another time.
"Mmm, sewing too, that's another good skill for a girl to have."
"Yes." Matter-of-fact, just-like-that, spidery smile flashes, revealing fangs, she hadn't sensed my sarcasm, instead arachnid-senses thought they detected a kindred soul.

Sometimes, being invisible to the general population is a good thing, and I must remember that spiders are often bad ass, hyper-perceptive motherfuckers.