Riddles in the Sun

The padel court echoed with the sharp rhythm of racquet against ball—tik-tik-tik—like a metronome counting down the hours of our vacation. Marcus watched from his lounge chair, his baseball cap pulled low despite the lack of sun. Three days into our anniversary trip, and we hadn't touched each other once.

"You used to play," I said, gesturing toward the court where a couple laughed over a missed shot. "Baseball, college scholarship, all that."

"That was twenty years ago, Elena." His eyes stayed fixed on the game. "People change."

People changed. That was the polite way of saying he'd become someone I didn't recognize anymore. We'd been together eighteen years, married fifteen, and somewhere between the mortgage and the miscarriage and his mother's long decline, we'd forgotten how to be the people who fell in love in a dive bar in Chicago.

At dinner that night, I cut into my papaya, its flesh the color of sunset and just as fleeting. The server had carved it into a rough shape—something between a cat and a question mark. A sphinx, maybe. Riddles and answers.

"What do you want?" I asked suddenly. The question hung between us like smoke.

Marcus set down his fork. "I don't know anymore."

"Then figure it out." My voice didn't shake. "Because I can't keep loving a sphinx forever. I need answers, not riddles."

He looked at me then—really looked at me—for the first time in months. His baseball cap sat on the table beside his plate. Behind him, through the restaurant window, the padel court was empty now, dark under the moonlight.

"Tomorrow," he said finally. "Let's play."

"Play what?"

"Anything." A small, tentative smile. "Everything."

I reached across the table and took his hand. His palm was warm against mine, the papaya sweet on my tongue. Some riddles don't need answers—they need only the courage to be asked.