Pyramids at Sunset

Maria stood at the edge of the infinity pool, watching the Egyptian sun bleed into the horizon in shades of burnt orange and bruised purple. The anniversary trip had been David's idea—something about rekindling what they'd lost. But three days in Luxor, and she was still waiting for the spark.

"The tour guide said if you squint, you can see the pyramids from here," David said, coming up behind her. His hand hovered near her shoulder, then pulled back.

"I saw them yesterday," she said, not turning around. "They're smaller than I expected. Like everything else."

The silence stretched between them, thicker than the humid air. She remembered when they'd met fifteen years ago—how he'd made her laugh until her ribs hurt, how she'd felt certain in a way she never had before. Now she couldn't remember the last time they'd laughed together.

"Maria, about last night—"

"Don't." She cut him off sharply. "Just don't."

She dove into the pool, the cool water shocking her skin. Swimming laps, she counted her strokes: one, two, three. A pyramid of repetitions, building toward nothing. When she surfaced, David was gone.

Later, in their room, she found him sitting on the balcony with two glasses of orange juice. The ice had melted, diluting the color to something pale and hopeful.

"I cancelled our flight back," he said quietly. "Extended the reservation. Thought maybe we could try again."

Maria looked at him—at the gray threading his temples, the familiar lines around his eyes that deepened when he was anxious. She thought about the pyramids they'd visited yesterday, how they'd stood for thousands of years while civilizations rose and fell around them. Some things endured.

"The juice is warm," she said, sitting beside him.

"I can order fresh."

"No. This is fine."

She took the glass. Below them, the pool reflected the first stars. Somewhere in the distance, the ancient pyramids held their ground against time. She wondered if marriages could do the same—survive the slow erosion, if you just kept showing up.

"Tomorrow," she said, "let's go back. I want to really see them this time."

David's shoulders relaxed. "Okay. Tomorrow."

Maria clinked her glass against his. The juice was warm and slightly bitter, but she drank it anyway.