Of Umbrellas, Spiders, and Dark Times

“I’m going to catch the Spider, James.” Elizabeth called from our bedroom.

She was referring to the city’s most used means of transportation, one that the public was assured was as safe as the zepplins that dotted the sky. I had my doubts.

I folded the Daily Argus I’d been reading and grunted in displeasure when she swept into the sanctuary of my study.

“Oh don’t be like that. You know the trams are perfectly safe.”

“Sure, if you stay in well-lit areas and are home before dark.” I retorted.

“I’ve read the same public service announcements you have and frankly, I’m not impressed. I won’t be intimidated into a self-imposed curfew.”

“Well, what about Red Robb?”

“If he exists at all, which I have doubts about, he only kills prostitutes. Trust me. I’ll be fine.”

My wife kissed me softly on the cheek and gathered her coat and umbrella.

“The Argus didn’t say that it was supposed to rain tonight.” I said, nodding to her umbrella.

A pitying smile was her only answer and her only company as she walked out.

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