Apathy comes to me as a Femme Fatale. Dark and alluring, coy and dangerous. I never invite her in; she’s simply there when I walk through the door, lounging across the couch, ventilated light illuminated by the smoke of a long cigarette. She knows she gorgeous, waves of blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, a wide-brimmed hat to shade the eyes of purest black, a slit in her dress so high you can see the knife on her thigh, or at least the lace that holds it there. This is her power: to flaunt how dangerous she is, then make you forget.
Apathy, she’s never direct, but always forward. She guides with velvet hands and a satin voice. She speaks truth and lies in one breath, swirled together like sweet wine laced with poison. Can’t even taste the difference. She always leads, and I watch her go, watch the pendulum switch of her hips. I don’t look up to see where we’re going, she never tells me, but then I never ask.
Apathy. She never appears out of place; she waltzes through the bustling city, glides through the green jungle, and walks across the water. Heat never reddens her soft, pale skin, humidity never teases her hair, she is impossibly perfect, impervious to pain. She cannot be hurt, disturbed, or annoyed. She ignores every authority, her velvet hands slip free of every chain. She is free, free for all and free of all. I want her. I envy her.
Apathy. She says she wants me, and it’s true. She says she loves me, and it’s false. Her lips are laced with sweetness, there is honey under her tongue, her breath is cinnamon. Syrup and poison, delicious death. A numbing, paralyzing wine is her kiss. She lays me down, still and quiet, and she takes me. I don’t even feel the knife, my mind clouded by her sweet spices. An anesthetic aphrodisiac. Numb never felt so good.
Apathy. She gives in great measure, but only so she can take. Gives me ease, takes the strength I would have used. Gives me pleasure, takes my discipline. Gives me numbness, takes my joy. I don’t feel, I don’t think, I just am. No wrath, no laughter, just stillness. She whispers in my ear that she wouldn’t have me any other way. She feeds again.
Apathy. She stays as long as she is welcome, her life is drawn from mine. Gentle words will not move her, and her silky tongue is stronger than mine. She must be led, but not softly, for her velvet touch is more than I can bear. She must be forced. Grasped with ferocity and thrown out the door. Passion. Passion alone can remove her, hurl her out of my home. She straightens her dress, dons her wide hat, and smiles at me through the same dark eyes. There is no hatred in her, no desire for revenge. She feels nothing, she is nothing. And she knows my eyes watch her as she leaves. I blink, and she is gone.
Apathy. She is invisible again, softly prowling, purring out her night-call. She hunts men, hunts me. I look for her, in desire or anticipation, I don’t know. Sometimes, she wants to be seen. Others, she doesn’t. She can feed longer in shadow, but then, she loves to conquer. Silent, but never still, always roaming, always seeking, exposed only by the whispering over her name.