Riddles in the Dugout

The email from Maya arrived at 2 AM, its subject line blank, its content devastating: *I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of guessing what you're thinking.*

I sat on the edge of the bed, Charlie's old retriever mixing a soft whine into the darkness. He rested his chin on my knee, those ancient eyes knowing. Dogs always know before you do.

Maya had called me a sphinx two weeks into our relationship, amused by my silence in crowded rooms. At first, she found it mysterious—the way I'd listen more than speak, reveal myself in careful increments. But three years later, my stillness had become her prison. She was done answering riddles she hadn't signed up for.

I thought about calling her. Instead, I found myself in the garage at dawn, Charlie's old glove on my hand, baseball thudding into the pocket again and again. We'd played catch every Sunday until the cancer took him last spring. He'd taught me to love the game's patience—the way it demanded presence, how a single moment could unspool into infinity if you let it.

*You think too much,* he'd say, *same way your mother did.* He never elaborated, and I never asked. Some sphinx-like tendencies apparently ran in the family.

The dog pressed against my leg as I threw, his gaze fixed on something beyond the fence. I followed his eyes and saw Maya standing there, coffee mug in hand, hair still wet from the shower.

*Your neighbor lets you in?* I asked, stupidly.

*She's taking the kids to school. I told her I was here to say goodbye properly.* She stepped closer, the morning light catching the exhaustion in her face. *I'm not asking you to be someone else. I'm asking you to let me in.*

The baseball sat heavy in my hand. Charlie's voice echoed: *The game's not about how fast you throw. It's about knowing when to.*

*My mother,* I said, the words strange on my tongue, *she left when I was seven. No note, no explanation. Charlie raised me after that.* I took a breath, then another. *I think I learned that safety means not needing anyone too much.*

Maya's expression softened. She set down the mug and held out her hand—not to shake, but to hold. The dog sighed, satisfied, as if he'd been waiting for this play all along.

*We don't have to solve everything,* she said. *Just throw the ball. I'll catch it.*

So I did. And for the first time in years, the riddles didn't matter anymore.