Riddles at the Breakfast Table

Maria watched David peel the orange, his fingers mechanical, precise—everything their marriage hadn't become in seven years. The citrus scent hung between them like ghost perfume. She'd bought the papaya yesterday, some foolish attempt at romance, hoping the exotic sweetness might spark something between them again. Now it sat on the counter, growing soft, forgotten.

"You're staring," David said, not looking up.

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"About how you're like the sphinx."

He finally met her eyes. "Riddle me that one."

"You sit there inscrutable, knowing things you won't say. Waiting for me to guess the right answer or throw myself off the cliff trying." She'd started running again at dawn—three weeks now, lacing up her shoes while David slept, her feet hitting the pavement in rhythm with all the words she'd never said. Each run was another practice at leaving.

David placed the orange sections on his plate, neat as surgical specimens. "Maybe there is no answer. Maybe the sphinx was just guarding its own peace."

"Or maybe it was guarding the truth that the answer never mattered."

The papaya browned at the edges. Somewhere down the street, a runner's footsteps echoed against the pavement—steady, relentless, away.

"I met someone," she said.

David's hand stilled. "Are you leaving?"

"I left three weeks ago. You just haven't noticed yet."

He nodded slowly, finally understanding the riddle he'd never bothered to solve. The sphinx's silence had been an answer all along.