Riddles in the Dugout

The baseball game droned on—bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Marcus still hadn't looked at me once. I checked my iPhone for the third time in as many minutes. Nothing from Sarah. Just the unread text from three days ago: 'We need to talk.'

Beside me, Marcus crunched his popcorn, eyes fixed on the field like a sphinx—impassive, unreadable, carrying secrets he'd never share. We'd been together seven years. Seven years of Sunday games, of pretending this was enough.

A goldfish bowl sat on our kitchen counter at home. Bob. Sarah won him at a carnival last summer, and now he swam in endless circles, three-second memory erasing everything before it. I envied him. What I wouldn't give to forget the way Sarah looked at me across the dinner table last Tuesday—like she was solving a riddle she no longer cared to understand.

'You gonna eat that?' Marcus asked, pointing at my untouched hot dog.

'Nah. Your turn to buy next time.'

He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. Neither of us believed there would be a next time. The crowd roared as someone hit a home run. The crack of the bat echoed like something breaking.

My phone vibrated. Sarah's name lit up the screen.

I stepped into the bathroom, locked the door, and stared at myself in the mirror—thirty-eight years old and drowning in shallow water. Always swimming toward something I couldn't name.

Her text was simple: 'I'm staying with my sister. Bob needs feeding.'

Outside, the game ended. Marcus would want to talk about it, analyze every play like it meant something. Like anything meant anything anymore.

I flushed the toilet for show, washed my hands, and opened the door. The sphinx waited, patient as stone. Some riddles have answers. Some just have endings.