Riddles by the Pool

The sphinx fountain at the resort's edge had seen better days. Its stone wings were chipped, its riddle-worn face eroded by decades of chlorine and salt air. I sat on its base, staring at my husband's iphone on the lounge chair beside me.

He was at the padel court, playing mixed doubles with her—Elena, the architect from his firm. I'd watched them from our balcony earlier, the way she laughed at his serves, how his hand lingered on her back during changeovers. Innocent enough, maybe. But the phone had buzzed at 3 AM last night, and I'd seen the notification preview: "Can't stop thinking about yesterday."

Now the phone buzzed again. I didn't touch it. Some riddles are better left unsolved.

The heat pressed against me, heavy and suffocating. I stood and walked toward the pool, stripping off my cover-up. The water looked like liquid glass, undisturbed since dawn. I slipped in, cool shock closing over my head, and let myself sink to the bottom.

Silence. Finally.

Down here, weightless and suspended, I could almost pretend the last six months hadn't happened. That I hadn't noticed the late nights at the office. That his phone wasn't always screen-down on the bedside table. That we weren't here, at this couples' retreat, trying to fix something that might be beyond repair.

My lungs began to burn. I kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.

Across the pool, beside the eroding sphinx, my husband stood holding his iphone. He wasn't looking at the screen. He was looking at me.

"I told her," he said, his voice carrying across the water. "This morning. Before the match."

He set the phone on the fountain's edge. "I don't want riddles anymore."

I treaded water, heart pounding, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But he just stood there, waiting too. The sphinx watched us both, its stone mouth fixed in its eternal secret smile, and for the first time in months, I realized I didn't need it to speak. I could just swim to shore.