Riddle by the Reservoir

The dog—a golden retriever with greying muzzle—lay between them on the grass, head on paws, watching first Sarah then David with what Sarah imagined was judgment. Not that David would notice. He was too busy explaining the promotion, the corner office, the way everything had finally fallen into place.

They sat by the water's edge, the reservoir glass-smooth beneath an autumn sky. Five years ago, this spot had been theirs. They'd come here after fights, after good news, after the miscarriage that neither of them knew how to talk about. The water had been their witness, their silence, their never-ending conversation.

"It's like I finally solved it," David said, gesturing with his craft beer. "The riddle. How to make it work. Career, marriage, kids—it's all about timing." He smiled, that same confident smile that had won her over in graduate school.

Sarah thought of the Egyptian sphinx she'd seen in a museum last month—all that stone eroded by wind and time, still asking its questions. Oedipus had answered, but the answer had destroyed him. Some riddles weren't meant to be solved. Some truths only broke you in half.

"The house sold," she said instead. "I'm moving to Portland."

David's smile faltered. The dog lifted its head, ears perked.

"Portland? But—your job, your life here—"

"My life here ended three years ago, David. I just hadn't admitted it yet."

She watched the water ripple in the breeze. They'd spent so many years trying to be the right answer to each other's questions. But sphinxes didn't have partners. They sat alone in the desert, asking the same question to every traveler, watching each one fail or succeed or turn back entirely.

"You know what the sphinx represents?" she asked.

David frowned. "What?"

"The threshold. The place where you have to leave something behind to move forward. The answer costs you something."

The dog stood, stretched, and nudged David's hand with its wet nose. He scratched its ears automatically, eyes still on Sarah.

"I don't want you to leave something behind," he said quietly. "I want you to build something. With me. Again."

Some answers were easy. Some were impossible. And some—you just walked away from the sphinx entirely, letting it ask its questions to someone else. Someone who still believed solving the riddle was the point.

Sarah stood up. The dog woofed once, a soft sound that might have been goodbye.

"Good luck with the corner office, David."