Riddles in the Afternoon

Mara stood in her kitchen at 3 AM, staring at the wilted spinach in her colander like it held the answer to why David had left three months ago. The cat — a sixteen-year-old rescue she'd jokingly named Sphinx because she'd never figured out what breed she was — wound around her ankles, hungry and demanding.

"You're the only one who still needs me," Mara whispered, setting down the cat bowl. The divorce papers sat on the counter, already signed. David had cited something about growing apart, which was elegant shorthand for *I found someone younger who laughs at my jokes.*

She heated olive oil in the pan, watching it shimmer. Cooking had become her solace and her torment — every dish reminded her of meals they'd shared, restaurants they'd visited, the way he used to come up behind her while she chopped vegetables. The spinach sizzled as it hit the pan, surrendering its structure like she had surrendered her dignity, begging him to stay.

Sphinx jumped onto the counter and began her ritual of screaming about the injustice of being served breakfast at 3 AM.

"You're not a sphinx," Mara told the cat, scratching behind her ears. "Sphinxes ask riddles. You just demand food."

But maybe that was its own riddle — how you could spend decades building a life with someone, only to have it crumble because he felt "stuck." And here she was, thirty-seven, starting over, cooking spinach in the middle of the night because she couldn't sleep in the bed they'd shared.

The truth arrived with the clarity of exhaust fumes: love wasn't the riddle. Acceptance was. Learning to want what remained.

She turned off the burner. "Alright, Sphinx," she said, carrying the cat to the bedroom. "Let's sleep."

The cat curled against her chest, purring like a small engine. For the first time since the papers arrived, Mara didn't feel entirely alone.