Ares is from Mars, Aphrodite is from Venus

Ares stormed into Mount Olympus' newly renovated break room, his armor clanking against the marble countertop as he slammed down his phone. Apollo, who had been peacefully sipping nectar while composing haikus about his own reflection, looked up with mild irritation.

"Brother, you're interrupting my creative process. And you know how I feel about creative interruptions after that incident with the lyre-playing satyr who thought death metal covers of my hymns were 'paying homage.'"

"Save it, sunshine," Ares growled.

"I need your help. You're good with words and prophecies and all that pretentious stuff."

Apollo straightened, preening slightly.

"Well, I am known for my mastery of language, poetry, and the delicate art of—"

"Yeah, yeah. Look at this." Ares thrust his phone in Apollo's face.

"Aphrodite sent me this text, and I can't figure out what it means. She's mad at me, but I don't know why."

Apollo squinted at the screen. The message read:

"I can't believe you're so obtuse. You're literally the most dense god I've ever dated. You have the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. But whatever, I'm fine."

"She says she's fine," Ares said, looking genuinely puzzled.

"So we're good, right?"

Apollo stared at his brother for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, sweet Chaos. Ares, when a woman says 'I'm fine,' she is, in fact, the opposite of fine. It's like when mortals say 'with all due respect'—they mean absolutely no respect is due."

Ares frowned.

"But that's stupid. Why not just say what you mean?"

"Says the god who once claimed he was 'just resting his eyes' when we caught him napping during Zeus' three-hour PowerPoint presentation on proper lightning bolt maintenance."

"That's different," Ares protested.

"And those slides were terrible. Who uses Comic Sans for divine presentations?"

"Focus," Apollo said, setting down his nectar.

"Aphrodite called you obtuse and dense. Do you know what those words mean?"

"Of course I do!" Ares puffed up indignantly.

"I'm not stupid. Obtuse is like... when something's really heavy. And dense means... yeah, also heavy. She's complimenting my muscular physique!"

Apollo's face went through several expressions, landing somewhere between amusement and despair.

"Brother, she's calling you emotionally unaware. Obtuse means slow to understand, and dense means... well, in this context, it also means slow to understand."

"But why wouldn't she just say that?"

"The same reason Zeus calls his affairs 'diplomatic missions' or why Hera refers to her revenge schemes as 'karmic readjustments.' We're gods—we love our metaphors."

Ares began pacing, his heavy boots leaving scorch marks on the pristine floor.

"Okay, so she's mad because I'm not understanding something. But what?"

"What happened before she sent this?"

"Nothing! We were having dinner at that new ambrosia fusion place—her idea, by the way. All weird combinations like nectar-glazed pizza and immortality-fruit sushi. She kept talking about how she'd dropped hints about this date for weeks, and how it was such a special day, and..."

Apollo raised an eyebrow. "What day was it?"

"Tuesday?"

"The date, Ares. The actual date."

"Uh... the 14th of— Oh." Ares' face drained of its godly glow.

"Oh no."

"There it is." Apollo smiled sympathetically.

"The anniversary of your first date, I presume?"

"Three thousand years ago," Ares groaned, slumping into a celestial chair that creaked in protest.

"She mentioned something about a special celebration last month. I thought she was talking about the new season of 'Real Housewives of Mount Olympus.'"

"Ah yes, because Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, would consider Hera throwing wine in Zeus' face for the thousandth time more important than your relationship milestone."

"Don't get sarcastic with me, sunshine. This is serious! What do I do?"

Apollo stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, you could try—"

Just then, another text came through. Ares grabbed his phone so quickly he nearly crushed it.

"She says, 'Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. I just thought you might remember, but clearly I expected too much. It's whatever.'"

"Oh, that's bad," Apollo winced.

"But she said don't worry about it!"

"Ares, Ares, Ares." Apollo stood and placed a brotherly hand on the war god's shoulder.

"In the language of love, 'don't worry about it' means 'you should definitely be worrying about it,' 'it's not a big deal' means 'it's the biggest deal ever,' and 'it's whatever' means 'I will be bringing this up in every argument for the next millennium.'"

Ares looked like he'd been hit with one of Zeus' thunderbolts.

"Why is everything opposite? This is worse than that time I had to decode one of your prophecies about a one-legged man walking backward into a cave of mirrors during an eclipse."

"That was actually quite straightforward—The man had two legs and was running forward out of a tanning salon at noon!"

"Poetry is about interpretation, dear brother." Apollo waved his hand dismissively.

"But right now, you need to focus on damage control. Aphrodite is speaking in the ancient tongue of romantic disappointment. Each passive-aggressive text is another nail in your sarcophagus."

"What do I say back?"

"Nothing. Words are useless now. You need grand gestures. Think roses, chocolates, jewelry—"

"Already tried that last week when I forgot our dinner date because I was playing Call of Duty with Hermes."

"Ah." Apollo thought for a moment.

"In that case, I suggest groveling. Olympic-level groveling. The kind that would make Sisyphus say, 'Wow, that's dedication.'"

Ares stood up, determination gleaming in his eyes.

"Right. I can do this. I'll tell her I'm sorry and that I—" His phone pinged again.

"Now what?" Apollo asked.

"She says, 'I hope you and Apollo are enjoying your little chat in the break room. BTW, Apollo, your haiku about your reflection was one syllable off.'"

Both gods slowly looked up at the security camera in the corner, its lens gleaming with a distinctly rosy tint.

"Well," Apollo said, quickly gathering his things, "you're on your own with this one, brother. I have a... pressing engagement with... anyone who isn't in this room!"

As Apollo fled the break room, Ares stared at his phone, finally understanding that in the language of love, he was, indeed, as dense as a brick wall.

And somewhere on Olympus, a goddess was planning how to make the god of war sleep on the couch for at least a century—metaphorically and literally.