Riddles in Glass

The bulldog's leash cut into my palm as Marcus pulled away, his face that familiar stubborn mask I'd loved and loathed for twelve years. The beast—a massive English mastiff, actually, though everyone called him a bull for his sheer obstinance—lunged toward the pigeon that had landed too close to our morning coffee.

"He's not trained, Elena. He's just—"

"Just like you," I finished, watching the bird scatter into the smog-gray London sky. "Chasing things you can't catch."

Later that evening, I sat alone at the British Museum, sketching the Sphinx of Hatshepsut for the restoration project. Her limestone face—missing its nose, mysteriously serene—seemed to mock me. What riddle had my marriage become? Something about possession and loss, about how the person who holds you closest can also be the one who erases you, piece by piece, until you're as fragmented as an ancient statue.

My phone buzzed. Marcus: *Come home. We need to talk.*

I didn't respond. Instead, I walked to the pet shop on Tottenham Court Road, where three fantail goldfish floated in their illuminated tank, their translucent fins trailing like silk wedding veils in water. I'd bought our first fish together, the week after we moved in. We named them Hope and Patience—my idea, his laugh.

Hope had lasted three years. Patience, five.

The shop clerk asked if I needed help.

"Just looking," I said. "Do they ever remember? The things they see before they..."

"Fish have three-second memories, love. That's the myth anyway."

Three seconds. Imagine that. Imagine forgetting everything you'd ever known, every hurt, every touch, every whispered promise, in the time it took to draw a breath. To start fresh, endlessly, in circles of glass.

I walked past our flat. The lights were on. Through the window, I could see Marcus sitting at the table, head in his hands. The mastiff slept at his feet.

I kept walking toward the studio, where the limestone sphinx waited, her riddles unanswered, her face serene. Somewhere between what we lose and what we remain—that's where the living happens. That's where I would begin again.