Riddles in the Dark

The bartender poured another finger of scotch. The amber liquid caught the light like a trapped sunset.

"So," Elena said, not looking at him. "That's it, then?"

"That's it." Marcus swirled his glass. The ice had melted, diluting the burn into something palatable, something sad.

They were sitting by the hotel pool, the dark water still except for the ripples from the filtration system. Somewhere below, a party carried on—laughter and the clink of glasses, the sounds of people who still believed in tomorrow.

She reached out, her palm open, waiting. He pressed the room key into her hand. Their fingers touched, briefly, and he remembered how her hair had looked spread across his pillow that morning—dark and tangled, like something that had washed ashore.

"You're like a sphinx," she said bitterly. "Always that damn smile. Never letting anyone in until it's too late."

"I tried."

"No you didn't." She stood up. The orange dress she'd worn to dinner moved around her like flames. "You tried just enough to keep me from leaving, but never enough to make me stay."

Marcus watched her walk away toward the elevators. He thought about calling her back, about saying something that would matter. But the words dissolved in his throat like salt in water.

The bartender appeared with a bowl of nuts. "Rough night, buddy?"

Marcus stared at his reflection in the dark window behind the bar—enigmatic, unreadable, the kind of man who always appeared to know something others didn't.

"Just another Tuesday," he said.

He finished his drink and ordered another. Some riddles, he decided, were better left unanswered.