The Marble Trekker

And the Man Who Learned That Spiders Don’t Need Shoes (But They Need Luck)

There I am… parked on a soft, overly polite chair in a large textile store, the kind where husbands come to die waiting.

My wife is deep inside the fabric jungle, comparing shades of beige that all look exactly the same to the untrained (read: male) eye.

I had briefly considered going in search of her. Briefly.

But then a wise voice inside me whispered, “Don’t be a hero, MMC. Sit down. Stay safe.”

So I pull out my phone… ready to scroll, swipe, and pretend I’m very busy reading something intellectually fulfilling.

And that’s when I see him.

At first, I think it’s just a bit of thread or a piece of fluff. But no. It’s alive. It’s… a spider.

Small. Solo. Determined.

Marching across the marble floor like he’s got a meeting on the other side of the store and is already running late.

Now, this floor is not just any floor. This is the Great White Expanse of Textile Arabia.

For the spider, it’s less of a floor and more of a continent.

The poor fellow is basically trekking across a white, shiny desert.

And unlike us, he doesn’t have Google Maps, bottled water, or a spouse telling him he should have taken a left at the silks section.

Also… no shoes.
But then again, affording four pairs is a stretch when you’ve got eight legs and zero income.

Yet on he goes.

He’s walking dead centre. No hugging the corners like other shy, wall-hugging arthropods. No, sir. This guy has main character energy.

Naturally, I start rooting for him.

I know… I hate spiders. But once you start imagining their life story, something changes.

Maybe he’s got a wife near the lehengas. Maybe she told him, “Just five minutes,” and now it’s been two hours, and he’s on a rescue mission. Relatable.

But the universe doesn’t like happy endings without a little chaos.

Enter: The Mop Lady.

She approaches with the casual menace of someone who’s done this before.

Mop in hand, expression unreadable, gliding across the marble like she’s rehearsing for the Ice Hockey World Cup.

And my tiny friend? Dead centre in her path.

I freeze.
He doesn’t.
She’s getting closer.
He keeps marching.

It’s like watching Mission: Impossible play out in miniature, and I’m on the edge of my seat. I try to send him telepathic signals.
“LEFT! DODGE LEFT, YOU LEGEND!”

He doesn’t get the message.

The mop swishes dangerously close. I almost yell out, “NOOOO!” but I stop.

Because how do you explain to a stranger that you’re emotionally invested in the fate of a spider on aisle three?

I want to intervene. To shout. To wave my hands.

But I also want to go home with my dignity intact.

So I watch. Helplessly.

And just when I think she’s going to wipe him off the planet, she changes course. No reason. No warning. Just decides the floor looks cleaner somewhere else.

My guy survives.

I exhale so loudly the guy next to me shifts his chair.

But our hero isn’t out of the woods yet. Oh no. He continues marching… right through the centre of the floor. No detours. No wall-crawling. It’s like he wants to get squashed just to prove a point. Brave or bonkers? Hard to say.

And right at this crucial moment, my wife reappears.

“I’m done. Cash counter. You coming?”

I nod, but then… SHE’S ABOUT TO STEP ON HIM.

“STOP!” I whisper-yell. “Spider! There!”

She stops in her tracks and stares at me like I’ve volunteered to host a reality show called Dancing with the Spiders.

“What?” she says, blinking.

“Spider. Crossing.”

She doesn’t even look down. Just murmurs something about my mental stability and parades toward the billing counter.

I want to stay and see the little guy finish his epic journey, but I sense my own safety is now at risk.

So I mentally whisper to him, “It’s all you now, buddy. I’ve got to go. May your eight legs carry you far.”

I break into a strategic trot… not out of love, but to stop my better half from locking eyes with a sequined bedsheet and vanishing into another aisle like a shopping ninja.

And the next time we visit the store, I look around. A part of me wants to ask one of the staff,
“Hey, remember a spider that crossed this floor last week? Brave chap. Looked like he had a purpose.”

But I don’t.

Because someone with two legs, a shopping bag, and very little patience is standing right next to me.

Turns out, I’m the real crisis waiting to happen… not the guy with eight legs.