Riddles in Aisle Four

Marcus stood before the supplement wall, fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects. At forty-two, he'd become the kind of man who stood in pharmacy aisles contemplating mortality through the lens of multivitamins. The orange plastic bottle promised renewed energy, better digestion, something approaching hope. He gripped it like a talisman.

Three months since Elena left. Since she'd looked at him across their IKEA dining table and said, "You're like a sphinx, Marcus. All these riddles you won't even let yourself solve."

The accusation had landed with terrible precision. Because she was right—he spent his days constructing elaborate defenses against his own desires. Bullshit rationalizations for staying in a job that hollowed him out. Bull-headed denial about the distance growing between them, measured in cancelled dates and unspoken grievances.

Now he stood alone, scheduled for a performance review at noon, wondering when he'd become someone who needed orange juice just to get out of bed. His therapist had suggested supplements. "Sometimes the body needs help," she'd said, like that explained everything.

His phone buzzed—Elena's number. He hadn't deleted it. A part of him, foolish and persistent, still wanted her to be the one to tell him what all this meant.

Instead, a text: "Your bull is loose again."

Marcus closed his eyes. They'd bought matching ceramic bulls in Mexico, years ago, when they still believed in symbols. Hers stood on the fireplace mantel. His, on his bedside table, knocked over weekly by his restless sleeping.

He set the vitamin bottle on the shelf. Unopened.

Outside, the sky burned orange with sunset, that brief moment when day surrendered to something beyond its control. Marcus walked toward his car, toward the performance review, toward whatever came after sphinx-like silence finally broke. He would call Elena. He would ask the questions she'd always wanted him to ask. The riddles had answers after all—they were just terrifying to speak aloud.