Ryan and I had been married for nine years, and weekday mornings were usually painfully predictable.
Coffee. Showers. Arguments over who had moved the car keys.
But one Tuesday morning, while we were both getting ready for work, Ryan suddenly became unusually affectionate.
I laughed and told him we were already running late.
He ignored the clock.
For a few minutes, our boring morning routine disappeared completely.
Afterward, Ryan looked ridiculously proud of himself.
“You’re welcome,” he joked while straightening his shirt.
I just stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“You seriously didn’t notice?”
His smile disappeared.
“Notice what?”
I pointed behind him.
There, beside the bathroom cabinet, was the largest spider I had ever seen in our house.
Ryan jumped backward so fast he nearly knocked over the laundry basket.
That’s when everything suddenly made sense.
During our romantic moment, I had seen the spider crawling slowly down the wall behind his shoulder.
The reason I had been squirming, gasping, and grabbing onto him wasn’t because Ryan was doing anything particularly impressive.
I was desperately trying to keep that enormous spider from landing on either of us.
Ryan stood frozen for several seconds.
Then he looked at me.
“So… all that enthusiasm?”
I burst out laughing.
“Mostly terror.”
He refused to speak to me while carrying the spider outside in a glass.
For months afterward, anytime Ryan became overly confident, all I had to say was:
“Remember the bathroom spider?”
That usually ended the bragging immediately.
