Riddles by the Pool

The water in the pool remained glass-still at 4 AM, that perfect turquoise rectangle that had cost Marcus half his signing bonus. He sat on the edge, legs submerged, nursing whiskey that burned going down. Behind him, his divorce papers sat on the patio table, final and terrible.

A goldfish bobbed to the surface—one of Ella's rescue efforts, liberated from its bowl before she'd left last week. It floated belly-up, orange and terrible against the blue. Marcus watched it without moving. Everything beautiful left eventually.

Barnaby, his elderly golden retriever, limped over and rested his chin on Marcus's knee. The dog had been Ella's idea too, another purchase meant to domesticate them into a family they never became. Now it was just Marcus, Barnaby, and this overpriced pool nobody used.

"You're riddle-less tonight," he muttered to the dog, remembering how Ella used to call him a sphinx—inscrutable, withholding, impossible to read. She'd meant it as criticism. He'd taken it as defense.

The pool's underwater lights flickered on automatically, illuminating the dead goldfish like a tiny martyr. Marcus thought about riddles, about how the sphinx asked questions no one could answer, and ate those who failed. What was the riddle of his marriage? What walks away on two legs but stays with you on four?

He reached into the water and nudged the goldfish. It sank slowly, spiraling down into the artificial depths. Some things didn't float forever.

Barnaby whined and Marcus buried his fingers in the dog's wet fur. Tomorrow he'd drain the pool. Tomorrow he'd call the lawyer about the details he'd been too angry to discuss. Tonight, he sat with his legs in the water while the dog pressed warm against his side, and let himself be exactly, painfully human.