Riddles After Midnight

The restaurant was nearly empty, just the clink of silverware and the low hum of conversation from the last tables. Mara sat alone, picking at the spinach that had wilted on her plate, its dark greens now limp and resigned—much like her marriage had been in its final months.

Across the room, David sat with his new girlfriend. The woman laughed at something he said, head thrown back, elegant neck exposed. Mara remembered when David used to look at her like that, before everything between them became a series of riddles she couldn't solve.

He was like the sphinx she'd once seen in Cairo—imposing, ancient, holding secrets behind that inscrutable face. For years, she'd spent her nights trying to answer his unasked questions, trying to solve him. His moods were monuments she built her life around, his silences were sacred texts she studied for meaning that wasn't there.

The waiter brought her dessert—a blood orange tart, bright citrus cutting through the richness of her thoughts. She watched David's hand brush against his date's arm, light and affectionate. He'd never touched her like that, not anymore. His touches had become functional, absent, like he was checking to see if she was still real.

"You're overthinking," he'd told her once, when she'd asked him what was wrong. "Not everything means something."

But she'd believed it did. She'd believed every silence was a test, every withdrawal was punishment for some unknown crime. She'd played his sphinx games for a decade, certain there was a grand riddle she just hadn't solved yet.

The blood orange was sharp on her tongue, almost metallic. She swallowed, realizing: there was no riddle. There was only a man who'd stopped loving her and hadn't had the courage to say it.

Mara signaled for the check. Outside, the night air was cool, and for the first time in years, she felt light. No more riddles. No more sphinx. Just the taste of citrus on her tongue and the long walk home, into whatever came next.