Riddles in the Produce Aisle

Sarah stood in the grocery aisle, clutching a bag of spinach like it might save her marriage. The plastic crinkled in her grip—real, tangible, unlike the silence that had filled her apartment for three weeks. Her iPhone buzzed in her pocket, David's name lighting up the screen for the first time since the fight.

She'd spent years analyzing ancient texts for her dissertation, decoding the Egyptian Book of the Dead, writing about the Great Sphinx of Giza and its impossible riddle: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? She'd always loved its elegance—how it captured the trajectory of a human life in one simple image.

But David's riddle was messier. His text message was devastatingly simple: "I'm at the airport."

The spinach suddenly seemed ridiculous in her hand—a bundle of green leaves she'd bought for a dinner that would never happen. She thought about all the quiet evenings they'd shared, the meals prepared in silence, the assumptions she'd made about their shared future. The iPhone's screen began to dim, his message fading like twilight.

A college student nearby was scrolling through social media, laughing at something on her screen. Sarah looked from the girl's glowing phone to her own, then to the sphinx-shaped keychain on her purse—a tacky souvenir from her research trip to Giza.

"Solve the riddle, Sarah," she whispered, tossing the spinach into her cart next to a bottle of wine. "Four legs: you were strangers. Two legs: you built something together. Three legs: now you'll figure out how to walk alone."

She pressed the phone's screen, thumbs flying as she typed back. "Have a safe flight."

The carrier was departing, and Sarah knew their chapter was closed. She pushed the cart toward checkout, each step a deliberate act of self-preservation. The riddle had been answered, and she was ready for whatever came next.