Riddles in the Dark

She left her iPhone on the nightstand, screen lighting up with messages I'd never answer. The apartment smelled of burnt spinach and the particular silence that follows a goodbye. I'd been cooking dinner—her favorite, or so I'd thought—when she told me she couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't do what exactly? That was the riddle, wasn't it? Like the sphinx posing questions to travelers who'd already lost their way.

I poured myself a glass of water, watching the condensation weep down the sides. We'd met at a baseball game three years ago—Giants versus Dodgers, extra innings, summer heat pressing against the stadium lights. She'd bought me a beer after I dropped my hot dog. Something about the way she laughed, like she knew secrets about the world that made everything okay.

Now the spinach sat cold on the stove, a dark green testament to good intentions. I scrolled through her phone—I know, I know—found nothing incriminating. That was almost worse. No secret lover, no hidden life. Just her, drifting away from me like water seeking its own level.

The sphinx asks: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer's a man, but the real question is: what happens when you're too tired to walk at all? When your iPhone dies and no one's trying to reach you anyway?

I turned off the burner. The spinach was ruined. Somewhere, a baseball game was probably ending. Somewhere, someone was falling in love over a dropped hot dog. And here I was, solving riddles nobody had asked.

The glass of water sat untouched. I drank it anyway.