Sphinx at Sunset

The orange light of late afternoon hit the water in just the right way—that specific angle that makes everything look like a memory already half-forgotten. Elena sat at the edge of the pool, her legs dangling in the cool water, watching the ripples distort her reflection. Somewhere behind her, Sphinx—her sister's temperamental cat—paced along the patio tiles, meowing his dissatisfaction with the empty food bowl.

Three months since Marcus left. Seventy-two days of learning to sleep alone again. The pool had been his project; he'd spent last summer convincing her that a house in the suburbs needed a pool, that they'd host parties and teach nonexistent children to swim. Now it was just a hole in the ground filled with chlorinated water and ghost plans.

Sphinx jumped onto the lounge chair beside her, orange fur glowing in the dying light. He butted his head against her arm, demanding attention with an arrogance that reminded her uncomfortably of her ex-husband. The cat had belonged to Marcus's sister originally—a parting gift that felt more like a curse.

"You miss him too, don't you?" she whispered to the cat, who purred in response.

The sphinx had posed its riddle to Oedipus: what walks on four legs, then two, then three? Elena had her own riddle now: what speaks of forever but leaves before winter? What builds pools for children who will never exist?

She pulled her legs from the water, droplets streaming down her skin like time itself—relentless, indifferent, beautiful. Somewhere in the house, her phone buzzed. Probably Marcus again, wanting to pick up the rest of his things. Or maybe just to remind her that closure is a myth people sell themselves to get through the night.

The orange light faded to gray. Sphinx curled up beside her, warm and alive, and for the first time in months, Elena didn't feel quite so alone with her riddles.