Memory's Unspoken Riddle

The riddle sat between them at dinner, silent as a sphinx. Two years of marriage reduced to what they could safely say—menus, weather, work schedules—while everything important went unspoken.

"Remember when we talked about running away to Seattle?" Elena said, pushing risotto around her plate.

Marcus didn't look up from his wine. "That was before."

Before what? she wanted to ask. Before the promotion? Before her mother died? Before they became people who ate dinner in separate rooms?

Their daughter's goldfish circled its bowl on the counter, its three-second memory seeming almost like a gift. No past to regret, no future to dread. Just now, forever.

"Jack's baseball game is Saturday," Marcus said.

"I'll be at the conference."

"Right."

The riddle between them widened. What happens when two people know each other too well to pretend, but not well enough to be honest? The sphinx demanded an answer, but neither could speak it.

That night, Elena lay awake as Marcus's breathing deepened. She thought about the goldfish, swimming in circles. Maybe they were doing the same thing—repeating the same patterns, mistaking motion for progress. The sphinx had devoured them whole, and they hadn't even noticed they were being eaten.

She thought about Seattle. She thought about running.

Instead, she watched the goldfish swim and waited for morning, when they'd pretend everything was fine.