Sphinx by the Pool
The corporate retreat was Elena's idea—team building, she'd called it, though what we were building remained unclear. I sat at the edge of the infinity pool, legs dangling in cool water, nursing a flat orange soda and watching my colleagues butcher a game of padel on the court below.
Marcus was losing badly, his competitive streak warring with his deteriorating knee. "Just like the Sphinx riddle," he'd joked earlier at breakfast, "ask me the wrong question and I'll crumble to pieces."
The statue by the garden—some pretentious concrete sphinx the resort had installed—stared blankly toward the ocean, its riddle apparently forgotten by whatever architect had placed it there. Riddle-less in a world that craved answers.
Sarah emerged from the pool behind me, water streaming from her hair like dark ink. She'd been my rival for three years, ever since the merger. We hated each other with professional politeness, the kind of hatred that manifests in committee meetings and subtle email sabotage.
"You're not playing," she said, settling beside me. Her shoulder brushed mine—accidental, calculated, I couldn't tell.
"Watching is more interesting."
"Marcus is going to hurt himself."
"He's already hurt himself. This is just public performance."
She laughed, and I found myself smiling. The sun dipped lower, painting the water orange, the same color as my neglected drink. Something shifted between us—the water, perhaps, or the hour.
"The Sphinx," she said softly. "You know what she asked travelers?"
"Something about walking on four legs, then two, then three."
"And if they couldn't answer, she ate them alive."
She turned to me then, water still slick on her shoulders. "We've been asking each other the wrong riddles for three years."
Maybe it was the heat, the orange glow spreading across the sky, the ridiculous sport being played with such intensity below us. Or maybe some riddles don't need answers—only the courage to ask them differently.
"Play doubles?" I asked.
She grinned. "Don't hurt your knee."