Riddles of the Tuesday Sphinx

The woman in the corner office reminded me of a sphinx—imposing, silent, and demanding answers I wasn't sure I had. Every Tuesday morning, Elena would summon me with that slight tilt of her head, and I'd walk into her office feeling like an archaeologist stumbling upon an ancient riddle.

"You're running in circles, Marcus," she said today, not looking up from her tablet. Her silver hair caught the morning light, severe and beautiful. "The quarterly projections don't make sense."

I felt that familiar tightening in my chest, the one that had been my companion since my divorce three years ago. The same anxiety that sent me jogging at 5 AM, running until my lungs burned and the world narrowed to nothing but breath and pavement.

"I'll revise them," I said, though we both knew the numbers weren't the problem.

Her assistant, a redhead named Fox—a nickname she'd earned through some corporate drama I'd never fully understood—caught me in the hallway afterward. She leaned against the doorframe, all sharp angles and knowing smiles.

"She's in a mood," Fox whispered, pressing a folded note into my palm. Her fingers lingered. "Drink tonight?"

I should have said no. I had a dog at home—a rescue named Barnaby who'd been waiting patiently since my ex moved out, and who deserved better than a master who came home smelling of gin and bad decisions. But work had been bleeding into everything lately, turning each day into a blur of spreadsheets and second-guessing.

"Why not," I heard myself say.

That night, over whiskey that burned exactly right, Fox told me things about Elena I shouldn't have heard—about her dead husband, about the daughter she hadn't spoken to in seven years. About how the sphinx's riddles were never really about business at all.

"She's lonely, Marcus," Fox said, her hand covering mine. "She sees people. That's all."

I thought about Barnaby waiting at home, about the sphinx in her tower of glass, about the clever fox sitting across from me with sad eyes. Running from one thing, running toward another, somehow always arriving at the same place.

"Tomorrow," I said, pulling my hand away. "I'll fix the projections tomorrow."

Barnaby was waiting by the door when I finally got home, tail thumping against the floor like a slow, steady heartbeat. Some riddles, I realized, don't have answers—only the asking matters, only the showing up, only the not running away.