Little Miss Muffet in the desert

In this city of sand and fake life, I sit in the peculiar cool of building shade. The trees they stand tall, but despite being real, they seem frozen and a sham, green statues unhappily planted in pots and plots cut out of concrete, forced to bring a bit of green and verve to a metal and glass kingdom built of dreams bought by clammy back pocket wallets.

The people they are like the trees somehow. It's a weird sensation to walk here a visitor, among those who live here. They function normally, almost too normally. Stepford wives with a damning and horrible twist. Perhaps this is just my feeling. I'd rather not find out.

I sit on the patio furniture that's orphaned from an actual patio, and listen to my music, drowning out the talk of work, social scandals and sighted fashion faux pas', sipping on a milkshake with artificial berry flavouring.

"And along came a spider and sat down beside her..."

It must've landed on my hand from a grey office windowsill, craving a bit of warmth, a tiny little thing, with 8 legs that wouldn't measure up to a fingernail. And I crack a smile.

It walks around the playground of my hand, as I twist and turn my wrist to keep it in view and keep it level headed. Even spiders feel gravity.
It sits on my tip of my finger and decides to change the scenery, but not leaving me completely, it dangles on its silk, weaving it slowly to gain momentum, and hey presto, a swing set to go with the palm playground. I hold it up and watch it shorten and lengthen its rope to swing smoother in the light breeze.
Thinking it perhaps would like to get off this merry go round of a ride, I offer it a table top, but the glass is not as appealing, and it scurries up its life line towards my finger. Fair enough spidey. Fair enough.

It takes a few more strolls along my love line, my health line, a little promenade on my soul line, and life line before once again venturing to the edge of a digit and dangling for a quick swing.
This time, I need to let it go.
I place it softly on a fake straw chair, and it reluctantly disappears among its weaves, once again to roam a fake plastic, metal, and glass jungle, an ambassador of what is real, a lion among cats.

Time to look for another real Little Miss Muffet.