Riddle Without Answer

The papaya sat rotting on the counter, its skin turning from firm yellow to mushy brown, much like their marriage. Elena watched it while David packed his suitcase in the bedroom. The fruit had been her peace offering yesterday—bought from the market after the fight about his promotion in Chicago. Now it was just another thing they hadn't consumed together.

"It's just a year," David called from the bedroom. "We'll video call every day."

Elena ran her finger through the dust on the windowsill. They'd promised each other no long-distance. Had stood in the Egyptian Wing of the Met on their first anniversary, staring up at the granite sphinx, and made promises about facing riddles together. The sphinx had been their symbol—sometimes you had to answer correctly or be destroyed.

But what happened when the riddle was whether to destroy your marriage for a career?

David emerged with his suitcase. The hallway light caught the orange tie she'd given him three birthdays ago. He looked like a stranger wearing familiar clothes.

"You're not taking the papaya," she said.

"What?"

"The papaya. You love papaya. I bought it for you."

David looked at the counter, then at her. "I'm not hungry, Elena."

The sphinx had asked Oedipus: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer: man. But no one asked what happened when the man stopped walking anywhere at all.

"Eat it before you go," she said, her voice steady, surprising herself.

He hesitated. The papaya had softened enough to yield easily to a knife. David sliced it, the orange flesh glistening in the dim kitchen. He took a bite, juice running down his chin, and for a moment, they were twenty-five again, standing before the sphinx, believing love was the only answer that mattered.

"It's good," he said.

"Then go," she replied.

The sphinx's riddle had one correct answer. Their riddle had none at all.