Riddles by the Pool

The sphinx guarding our marriage wore exercise shorts and a faded Stanford t-shirt.

We were at the padel court — another couples' night, another attempt to manufacture joy through forced recreation. Mark's backhand connected with the wall. *Thwack.* The sound echoed like a door closing somewhere we couldn't follow.

"You've been taking those vitamins again," he said later, by the pool. Not a question. An accusation wrapped in observation.

"They help me feel like myself again."

"Who was that?"

The question hung between us, heavier than the humid July air. Somewhere, an ethernet cable snaked through the walls of our too-expensive home, connecting us to everything except each other. I'd started noticing the cables everywhere — in the walls, under the floor, tangling around my heart like the roots of something dying.

"The person who didn't need pills to function."

"That person never existed," I said. "You fell in love with a riddle and got mad when I started answering."

The pool water lapped against the concrete edge,黑暗 and inviting. I thought about Ophelia. I thought about how women have always known that water, when it comes for you, is both violence and mercy.

"What do the vitamins do?" he asked, and for the first time in three years, he sounded curious instead of disappointed.

"They make the riddle bearable."

He stepped closer. His hand brushed my shoulder, then withdrew. "Maybe I've been solving the wrong puzzle."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The sphinx had finally spoken, and somehow, impossibly, we were both still breathing.