Riddles at Sunset

Mara pressed her palm against the cold windowpane, watching the sun bleed orange across the Los Angeles skyline. The corporate gala below glittered like a trap, all silk and secrets.

"You've been quiet," David said, coming up behind her. His reflection in the glass showed a man who'd stopped listening years ago.

"Just thinking about Egypt," she lied. They'd never been. That honeymoon, postponed indefinitely, had become a sphinx in their marriage—a silent monument to everything they kept putting off for someday.

"You always retreat there when you're unhappy." He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

"I'm not unhappy, David. I'm wondering when someday became never."

Outside, an orange taillight streaked down the darkening canyon. In the reflection, she saw his face crumble—really saw it, for the first time in months. The man who'd once looked at her like she was the only riddle worth solving.

"I cancelled the meeting tomorrow," he said quietly. "The one in Chicago."

Her palm still tingled from where she'd touched the glass. "Why?"

"Because you're right. About someday." He turned her around. "Let's go to Egypt next month. Just us. No postponements."

The sphinx had spoken, finally, after years of silence. But as she looked at him, Mara found herself asking a different question altogether: had they waited too long to learn how to be happy again?

Outside, the last orange light surrendered to darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm cut through the evening—sharp, urgent, demanding answer.