Riddles in the Rain

Margaret sat by the window, her cat Bast curled against her thigh, purring through the silence of her apartment. Outside, lightning fractured the November sky, illuminating the empty space where his photograph used to sit. Three years of marriage reduced to a cardboard box in the closet.

She'd always hated riddles—the way they withheld meaning behind layers of misdirection. Love had been like that. The sphinx had nothing on modern dating, with its questions and half-answers, its strategic omissions. David had been a master of the equivocal, his affection a series of clues she'd spent years trying to decode.

"You think too much," he'd told her once, somewhere between the beginning and the end.

Bast stirred, extending claws briefly before settling deeper into the cushions. At least the cat made sense. Hunger, affection, sleep—honest needs plainly stated. What a luxury, to love something that didn't require interpretation.

Another flash of lightning. The storm had moved closer, thunder following almost immediately. She watched the rain streak down the glass, distorting the streetlights into bleeding watercolors. This was the first holiday season she'd spend alone in seven years.

The sphinx's riddle had a solution, at least. What walks on four legs, then two, then three? A human being, moving through life. But what riddle had she been trying to solve? What walks away, then returns, then leaves again? What loves conditionally, then not at all?

Bast lifted his head, ears swiveled toward something Margaret couldn't hear. Perhaps the storm had frightened him. She stroked his spine, feeling the vibration of his purr against her palm. Some bonds didn't require solving.

The phone sat dark on the table. She'd deleted his number three weeks ago—a symbolic gesture, but necessary. Closure wasn't something that happened to you. It was something you chose, day by day, like getting out of bed, like feeding yourself, like learning to be alone without being lonely.

Lightning struck somewhere nearby, the thunder rattling the windowpanes. Bast shot beneath the sofa. Margaret smiled despite herself. Some things remained unpredictable.

She stood and walked to the kitchen. The tea kettle waited, patient and reliable. Some answers weren't riddles at all. Some questions weren't meant to be solved, only survived.