Apollo B, the Weekday Serial Killer
Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 3
(Because even gods show up at the gym.)
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I was lying in my hammock, taking a sunbath — the kind that makes neighbors wonder if I’m photosynthesizing.
The sunlight was coming through the trees in slow geometric shapes, and I was laughing to myself about Apollo B.
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Yes, that Apollo — the one with supernova eyes.
The kind of eyes that burn bright enough to light a universe, and then disappear just as fast.
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He had that cerebral wit that made you feel seen and studied at the same time.
He was a dissector of design, fluent in irony, allergic to sincerity.
I called him my second Apollo — the man who could make even darkness look conceptual.
He had curls like a bird’s nest.
I once told him if I were a bird, I’d live in his hair.
He chuckled — politely, I think — but at the time, politeness and amusement looked exactly the same to me.
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Back when I still used dating apps (an arena I’ve long since left behind), I swiped right on him while trying to clean a smudge off my phone screen.
Which, in hindsight, was foreshadowing — a metaphor disguised as a mistake.
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Before we met, I performed what I considered a responsible safety check.
You know that urban myth that if you ask an undercover cop, “Are you a cop?” they’re legally required to tell the truth? (Completely ridiculous.)
Well, I’ve always assumed serial killers have a similar Code of Conduct:
if you suspect someone’s a serial killer, you can simply ask, and they must answer honestly.
Danger never really goes away, but at least it has manners.
So I asked him if he was a serial killer.
He said yes, but only on weekdays.
We were meeting on the weekend.
That was the moment I thought: finally, someone who speaks fluent absurdity.
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Turns out we weren’t speaking the same dialect — I was writing poetry, he was proofreading the margins — ever the designer, searching for symmetry where I saw feeling.
We met for a brief chapter, and when it ended, it ended silently.
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He started appearing everywhere — at Olympias (the gym where mortals train like gladiators),
in The Temple of Provisions (where divine beings select their weekly offerings),
even in the parking lot, where his white chariot always ended up beside mine.
One day at the Temple of Provisions, we locked eyes — my famous gaze.
We stared at each other as if fate were pressing pause.
But honestly? I was only staring because I was evaluating a creature that needed to be sent back to its habitat.
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It was getting suspiciously mythological, so I finally texted him to confirm whether he was the man himself or his doppelgänger.
He replied that he was “the real one — the real copy,” which somehow made perfect nonsense.
So I ordered him, as any goddess would, to alter his sacred training hours at Olympias.
The mortal realm was clearly glitching — two divine beings should never share a treadmill.
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The last time I saw him, I was in a yellow dress with my new bionic glasses on — the prescription kind, not the superhero kind.
I walked right past him like sunlight moving past a shadow — no eye contact, no hesitation.
That was my release.
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Now, when I think of him, I laugh.
Maybe he really was a weekday serial killer —
the kind that kills the mood, the moment, the illusion —
but always clocks out before Sunday.