Concrete Questions

The pool sat unfinished—a turquoise wound in the desert landscape, its tiles gleaming under the merciless Nevada sun. Elena stood at its edge, clipboard in hand, while Richard—the sphinx of the development board—paced behind her, demanding answers she couldn't give.

"The investors want to know why we're two weeks behind schedule, Elena."

His voice carried that particular corporate patience that wasn't patience at all. A test. A riddle with no satisfactory answer.

"The marble shipment was delayed," she said, not turning around. "You know this. I've sent thirteen emails."

"And what have you *done* about it?"

What she'd done: sacrifice her marriage on this altar of concrete and marble. David had left three mornings ago, his departure as quiet as water lapping at pool edges. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just a suitcase in the hall and a note: *I can't compete with something that doesn't exist.*

The irony: the pool she'd spent eighteen months designing didn't exist either. Not really. Not without water. Not without the sphinx statue she'd commissioned from that sculptor in Marrakech—the one piece that would tie everything together, currently stuck in customs somewhere between Casablanca and Los Angeles.

A dog trotted around the corner, a stray that had been haunting the construction site for weeks. Some kind of shepherd mix, matted fur and intelligent eyes. It padded to the pool's edge and lapped at a puddle of condensation from a worker's water jug.

"You're feeding it again," Richard said, disgusted. "It'll never leave."

"He's thirsty."

"It. Not he. It's a stray, Elena. It's not a pet."

She watched the dog drink, its tongue flash like pink lightning in the heat. The dog didn't care about marble shipments or investor meetings or marriages dissolving over breakfast. It found water where water existed.

"I'm leaving," she said.

Richard stopped pacing. "What?"

"The project. The firm. All of it."

Silence stretched between them, charged and impossible. The dog looked up, water dripping from its muzzle, and regarded them both with ancient eyes.

"You can't," Richard said finally. "We're too close."

"The pool is empty, Richard. It's been empty for six months."

She dropped her clipboard on the unfinished deck. It landed with a hollow sound—concrete on concrete. The sphinx could keep its riddles. She was going home to find something real to drink from.