Webs

He spoke like threading spider webs. Words swathed through the air and connected, as though by magic, thin but unbreakable strands connecting to the smallest sections. It was like a collapsing in of itself, as though he spun the web from the outside in, and each concentric pattern dove inward, folded, augmented the weaker outer strains until neither tornado nor monsoon could tear them apart.

No, like other spider webs, his words could not be forcibly destroyed. Only the gentle caress of one finger’s edge, the sweep of similarly intricate spirals and loops, could slice through the sticky strands as though they were wisps of smoke.

That finger belonged to a woman. Her hands, perhaps fittingly, were long and thin – the legs of a bigger and more imposing spider sweeping down a rival web when those fingers touched his face. He could feel every groove, every pattern, when he closed his eyes and surrendered his words to her indelible touch.

And she would smile, lips trembling at her feat. She had no words. No verbal web to envelope and assault as his did. Her fingers travelled over his face, his eyes, his lips, and she evoked an immobility akin to hers. She felt the relief, the slackening of tight muscles as silence befell him. She pressed his palms, pressed his fingers to her lips and to her body, and they would weave a web of their own in surreptitious silence.