Apartment Olympus: Lesson Two
Read receipts and other divine tragedies
Hi, happy Tuesday!! Welcome to "Apartment Olympus," a series of scenes that take place between episodes of the main Aphrodite audio play. This particular scene occurs after episode 1 and episode 2 and before episode 3 (out Friday, 14.03!!), where we'll meet Hephaestus (and will maybe finally get a text back from Ares?? Who knows). Read previous “Apartment Olympus” here.
“Is that Ares?” Aphrodite dropped the seaweed sheet she just started on back into its bag and reached for Poet’s phone, its screen lit up with a new notification. She unlocked it in one smooth movement.
“Oh.” The light from the phone was dimmed by Aphrodite’s innate glow. “It’s Tinder.” Aphrodite slid the phone down onto the table without locking it. When Poet reached to pull it back, to turn it face down, Aphrodite stopped her hand with a soft but firm tap.
“No, he’ll text soon. Just wait.” She continued with the dried seaweed, keeping her eyes on the still open text conversation. The last message was sent by Aphrodite three hours ago.
“Love is about being seen,” the goddess quipped two weeks ago. “It’s a performance.” This lesson came almost naturally to Poet, or the performance half did. She knew about being seen, perceived, about the audience that was everyone in public, always. And Poet performed for them. She performed the role of female student, of woman eating an apple, of girl walking home. She was, she knew from a young age, perceived and evaluated. She would usually see this as an anxious, self-sabotaging trait, and Poet hadn’t found love in these observations. “Yet,” she thought.
The goddess’s voice whispered in her head when she ordered her morning coffee, walked to lectures, picked at her skin before bed in the bathroom mirror. Though, with the latter, the goddess was oftentimes right there with Poet, perched on the edge of the bathtub, combing her already perfect hair. Now, on this Tuesday evening, they were once again sitting in the kitchen of Poet’s studio apartment, and Aphrodite was eating the snacks.
“Can you show me how to go to this Instagram again?” Aphrodite reached out her hand, handing Poet the phone.
“Sure, just, you know, don’t like anything,” Poet said, handing the phone back and getting up from her chair, moving to the mirror on the left wall.
“He posted a story.”
Poet continued staring at herself in the mirror.
“Did you hear me?” The glowing face of Aphrodite appeared behind Poet in the mirror. Such sneakily unattainable beauty, Poet thought, looking back once more at her own reflection. Did her skin get duller, grayer? She should sleep more. Or stop eating so late. Or –
“Here, look at it.” On the screen was a video from the perspective of Ares. He had filmed himself walking into a restaurant. Poet glanced at the timestamp. The story was posted just 45 minutes ago.
“Oh.” Poet sucked air between her teeth. For a second the girl and the goddess made eye contact in the mirror. The deity looked away first.
She chuckled and sat back in her seat, pushing her hair behind her ears. “This is so him.” Poet watched as Aphrodite liked the Instagram story. “It’s our game, just in modern times. Today’s battlefield is Instagram.” She clicked to replay the story. “Obviously, like the foreplay we talked about.” She placed the phone, now face down, on the table, reaching once more into the bag with seaweed crisps. “Guess we’re building up to a climax.”