BEWARE HER AGGRESSION AND APPETITE!
"You remind me of my grand-uncle. It's the pipe. He was in the war."
Oh, is that a good thing?
"Not really. We always thought that he was up to no good, but it turns out he was simply collecting insects and getting a doctorate in entomology."
What's wrong with that?
"He was a re-incarnated arthropod."
Oh. Long pause. And how exactly do I remind you of him?
"You have the same cute little beard and you smell funny."
Yes, now that she mentions it, I can well imagine the resemblance. All of us mature pipe-smokers with neat beards are rather spider-like.
We're just trying to lure you into our web.
If I actually had eight limbs, I'd wave them all in distress at this moment. Because as a spider, I would probably not be interested in live protein at all, but nice hot buttered toast. Yes, I would try to lure you in, but only to share the toast with you. I have marmalade! And beautiful preserves!
All I require in return is that you gently scratch the back of my head, while my six eyes close in utter blis.
Spiders, you may remember, have very good reasons for being wary of females. Meaningful encounters usually end extremely badly for the male of the species. Instead of yummy hot buttery toast, with or without marmalade (or jam), they get eaten. Head first.
Rather like middle-aged pipe smokers trying to have a conversation with a bright-eyed woman significantly younger than himself, who conceivably is both carnivorous, and not too picky about whom she slaughters for food.
Due to this well-founded distrust of females, actual conversation with women rarely occurs. And only when there are tons of witnesses around.
In fact, it has been weeks, maybe even months, since I had a lengthy exchange with a bright-eyed feminine person younger than myself.
It remains a fond fantasy, but it might end badly.
Plus I never know what to say.
"Miss, you remind me of that scene in the movie 'Alien'."
See. Not an auspicious beginning.
Even if meant in a good way.
And it can only get worse.
Ideally, at some point a personable young lady will approach, and keenly wish to talk about Vladimir Nabokov with me, most particularly regarding the disconnected egomania of Charles Kinbote in Pale Fire, and his facile pedantic intellect.
Perhaps in a quiet alley near the Pyramid on a bright sunny day, while I am smoking a tobacco that does NOT remind her of any male relatives.
I am not the grand-uncle type.
We can have toast afterwards.
Charles Kinbote's egomania is just an example.
There are other subjects she could broach.
And it need not end in tea and toast.
Coffee and a pastry are also nice.
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