The Fantastic Hotel on Curzon Street
The spider in the top hat got out of the long black car, tapped the silver head of his cane on the vehicle's long black roof to signify to the driver, begone: return in the morning, be discrete. The spider stepped across the sidewalk to the hotel entrance with a four-footed side shoe shuffle, elegant black and white spats on his feet, thin red stripes down the side of each trouser leg. A dapper fellow, he wore a small red rose in his boutonnière, delicately scented. Its petals curved inwards and outwards, just like a lady he knew, her curlicued and scented centre like an elegant crystal flute laced through with incarnadine red.
The flower was the agreed upon signal - she would wear a scarlet rose with its thorns plucked out, worn high in a twist in her silken black hair. They'd never met - this was a new rendezvous, perfect strangers. He glanced at his watch, and flicked back four perfect cuffs. Nearly time: time for an adventure, time for an indulgence or two. It was just past three, and the spider would be eating by four.
By the revolving door a concierge stood, with a small boy beside him to take a message or a wish or a silk handkerchief to the ladies waiting within. They sat under their elegant hats, waiting for the door to turn, each thinking, "Is this the one, to make my fragile heart all a flutter? Is this handsome gentlemen for me, or has he come just to take tea?"
The spider tipped his hat to the man by the door. "Is there someone new today, my good man? Someone you've not seen here before?"
"In the coffee lounge, sir, with a small dog at her feet."
"A small dog, you say? Is it leashed, well behaved?"
"Indeed, sir. It has a soft leather collar about its neck." The doorman held his finger up to hold the spider's attention. "As does she, sir, but hers is made of velvet with a small silver cross."
"A silver cross? Are there vampires on their way, do you think, or is she a convent girl?"
"It could be, sir. Both. A religious woman to hold it in her fingers and pray, or a virgin, to keep the dark wolf away."
"Perhaps she has a collection, a different jewel every day. One imagines, does one not, a morning routine with a mirror, before she gets dressed?" The spider winked, his myriad eyes a curious, resplendent colour.
"Indeed, sir. A mirror."
"I shall go in. In the coffee lounge, you say?"
The concierge gestured him through the slow circling doors, and the spider proceeded within. The hotel lobby was wide and grand, with hushed carpets and wide leather couches, and over by a window, a row of trolleys for overnight bags. The spider had no need for any of that. He had a permanent room booked up on the fourteenth floor with a balcony overlooking the street. It was a special pleasure, with a moth or a bright butterfly, to lift up their skirts and run his hands over their glorious bottoms and in between their legs, to make them gasp and grip the railing as they looked down. Their wings would shimmer and flutter, and later on, they'd go dancing.
The spider checked that his nails were black and shining, and tipped his top hat back at a clever angle, slightly rakish, slightly off centre. It was a whimsy, never to be quite as expected. It made people wonder who he really was. He paused by the door to the lounge, taking a moment to observe the creatures within.
A wasp sat by the far window, very elegant, very slim, her dress clinging close in bright yellow and black stripes to her body. She was wearing movie star sunglasses, even though the lights around her were dim. When she stood she'd be very tall, her long legs even longer in high heeled shoes with glorious red soles to announce another occasion. She looked up. But no, she's not the one, she's blonde, with a ribbon in her hair, not a flower. The spider looked elsewhere.
In a small alcove near the door, two kittens curled side by side, their tails entwined, their paws placed politely on the table, their whiskers twitching with delight. They were being charmed by an elegant tom, a big black fellow like a panther. The spider imagined the cat's deep throated purr as he heard their mewls later on. The kittens were young, all giggles now, and would collapse into an exhausted sleep, their paws twitching in dreams. The spider tipped his hat to the cat, and the cat gave a singular twitch of his tail in reply. A pair of giggles followed the spider, tripping lightly into his ears.
Ahh, was that her, by the furthest window, her grey wings folded high, wearing a serpentine dress? The sheath of the cloth shimmered, pale blue, grey and silver, the colours shifting like a mirage. The spider delighted in the way the cloth caressed her breasts, accentuated her small waist, and clung tight to her long and magnificent thighs. She faced away from him, gazing out a high window looking out over a distant lawn. Her red tipped nails moved silently, swiftly, over a keyboard with a small screen. Her hair, sure enough, was piled high in a careless turn, a single red rose at her ear.
The spider moved silently forward until his shadow fell over her table. She stopped typing, slowly turned around and looked up. Her dark eyes held the spider's, and he felt a thrill deep in his belly. Ahh bliss, a beautiful woman with such a look, and such long fingers! Her fingernails were the deepest red. All but the forefinger on her left hand were long, while its nail was cut very short. The spider looked forward to that: an insertion. He pulsed at the thought of it, awareness of his sex flowing through him.
"It muzt be you," she said. "I'm zo pleazed to meet you. The flower in your lapel, meanz it's you." Her voice was low and seductive, her S's a buzz, long and drawn out, vibrating the edge of his skin. "Pleaze, will you join me?"
She clicked her fingers for a waiter's attention, then turned to the spider with a bright look in her eyes. "Pray, give me a moment, I muzt finish this."
The spider placed his hat under the chair, smoothed back his hair, then sat as his engagement, pronounced the French way, ohn gajj a mon, quickly typed, her fingers dancing over the glass screen. She looked up and smiled. "There. It'z done. Now, my good zir, how are you?"
She was a wild silk moth, not domestic nor tame, with ever so slightly slanted, slanting eyes. Her arms were bare, shimmying with a faint, faintest fur. Her tongue, a small proboscis flickering between her lips, promised tiny, penetratory, delights.
A waiter arrived, took their order, and they began to chat, circling around a mutual delight. It was unformed between them, but would solidify and crystallize in the air. Delicately sliced, they'd peel it back to reveal many layers, folded over three times, sometimes four.
"Boots," said the spider.
"Boots?" she asked, somewhat puzzled.
"Yes," the spider explained. "In the centre of every woven web that is woven, there must be a tiny grain of truth, like sand inside a pearl. Every web must have one, or come the first breeze the weave will disappear into gossamer, into smoke, into dust, and never be there at all." He paused, then went on. "You must have at least one truth, to be convincing."
"But... boots?" She leaned forward to listen more closely.
"A stranger, you said," the spider replied, "an anonymous stranger, you said, a meeting on the internet, a mystery, a thrilling rendezvous. But it can't be done without boots." He crossed his multiple legs and brushed a fleck of invisible lint from his collar. "The essential truth here, is your boots."
She looked down, seeing her long legs with slim, finely shaped calves; looked down to the little pair of ankle boots. Two pairs (for she was a moth after all), with not very high heels, made of soft supple leather.
