Riddles in the Salt

Maya arranged the grains of salt into a tiny pyramid on the table of the empty Mexican restaurant. She'd been doing it for twenty minutes while her phone stayed silent,screen lighting up with nothing but notifications she swiped away.

The waitress had stopped asking if she wanted to order.

"You waiting for someone?" the cook called out from the pass-through, leaning against the doorframe like he'd been watching her perform this ritual of miniature construction projects all night.

Maya nodded, couldn't find her voice. She was waiting for the man who'd told her yesterday that he'd been offered a promotion in Chicago. The man who'd asked, like it was a riddle he hadn't solved yet: "What do you think we should do?"

As if she knew. As if their relationship hadn't become something she had to solve like a sphinx's puzzle, with consequences she couldn't predict for getting it wrong.

He'd texted her the address of this place at noon. "Meet me here at 7. I have something to tell you."

The clock above the kitchen read 8:43.

Maya's hand went to her stomach where her nerves had tied themselves into impossible knots. She'd eaten nothing all day, nothing since the spinach salad she'd forced down at her desk while reading his text, trying to decode what it meant. Spinach that now seemed to be replaying itself, because when she'd excused herself to the bathroom after arriving, she'd discovered green flecks caught between her teeth.

She'd spent five minutes with the faucet running, her reflection someone she barely recognized - wearing the orange dress he'd said he loved once, before love became something they didn't say anymore.

"Last call for takeout," the cook said. "Kitchen closing in ten."

Maybe she should just go. Maybe that was the answer to the riddle - not to wait for someone else to decide.

She picked up her phone, hovered over his name. Three missed calls. One text sent at 7:02: "Running late. Wait for me."

Maya brushed the salt pyramid into chaotic dust with the side of her hand, watched it scatter across the table like something that could never be rebuilt the same way twice.

"Takeout box," she said, standing up. "I'll take my order to go."