Riddles in the Pocket

The baseball diamond lay empty beneath bruised November sky, the outfield where Marco had first pressed his hand against mine—fifth inning, two warming beers, conversation as easy as the seventh-inning stretch. That was before.

Now my iPhone burned in my pocket, delivering the message I'd been waiting three days to receive: "We need to talk."

I found myself at the Museum of Fine Arts instead of home, standing before the Sphinx of Hatshepsut—limestone woman with lion's body, its human face eroded by three thousand years of unanswered questions. The placard said it represented wisdom and mystery, but staring into those stone eyes, I saw only what Marco must have seen in me: something beautiful but ultimately impenetrable.

A gallery guard watched me with mild concern. "You've been here an hour."

"I'm trying to understand riddles," I said.

He nodded, like this was a normal thing to say.

Outside, the Boston dusk settled around me as I walked toward our apartment, passing the park where our dog Buster still waited each evening by the gate, golden retriever loyalty that Marco had claimed was worth more than anything we'd promised each other. Buster's tail thumped against the wrought iron, his ancient face lighting up when he saw me.

I knelt, burying my face in his fur, smelling the rain that was coming and the dog who had outlasted what we'd called love.

"He's not coming back, is he?" I whispered, and Buster whined, pressing his warm weight against me, answering with the clarity that the sphinx never could.

The iPhone buzzed again in my pocket, but I didn't reach for it. Some riddles you don't solve by reading the answer. Some you solve by learning to live with the question.