Riddles in the wilting light

Marcus stood in his kitchen, staring at the bag of spinach like it held answers he hadn't thought to ask. The leaves were already wilting, much like his marriage—slowly, imperceptibly, until you looked closer and saw the brown edges, the decay that had set in while no one was paying attention.

Outside, rain streaked the windows. His cat, Barnaby, wound around his ankles with the demanding affection of someone who knew he was now the sole recipient of Marcus's attention. Sarah had left three weeks ago, taking half the furniture and all the light from the rooms. She'd never liked cats. "Too much like living with a roommate who judges you," she'd said when Marcus brought Barnaby home as a kitten.

He dumped the spinach into a pan with too much olive oil. The sizzle was satisfying in a way nothing else had been lately.

On the windowsill sat the small porcelain sphinx she hadn't wanted. A souvenir from their trip to Egypt, back when they still called trips adventures instead of escapes. The sphinx's enigmatic smile had annoyed Sarah then—"it's not actually a riddle, Marcus, it's just factory-made in some warehouse"—but now it seemed to be the only thing in the apartment capable of keeping a secret.

Barnaby jumped onto the counter, batted at the sphinx with calculated curiosity.

"Careful," Marcus said, though he didn't move to stop him. "She hated that thing anyway."

The spinach was reducing now, darkening in the pan. He thought about how Sarah used to make fun of him for always putting spinach in everything—pasta, eggs, smoothies. "You're obsessed," she'd say, but she'd eat it anyway. The smallness of it all struck him sometimes: the way you could love someone through their habits, their compulsions, the way they burned dinner and left towels on the floor.

The sphinx's smile seemed to widen in the dim light. The great riddle wasn't why she left—he knew that, had known it was coming for months. The riddle was how he was still here, still making spinach for one, still surprised by the quiet.

Marcus turned off the stove. Barnaby butted his head against Marcus's hand. Outside, the rain kept falling, indifferent and endless, like time itself, washing away nothing but the surface of things.