Sphinx by the Sunrise Pool

The papaya sat untouched on the white porcelain plate, its orange flesh glistening like something already decaying. Elena stared at it through the terrace doors, watching the Egyptian-themed resort come alive around the pool below.

A concrete sphinx guarded the shallow end, its chipped paint giving it an air of weary amusement. Tourists floated on neon inflatables, drinks in hand, while Elena's husband Mark—her soon-to-be-ex-husband—slept off last night's argument in their room.

She'd become a zombie in this marriage, she realized. Not the dramatic kind from movies, but the slower variety: the walking dead who went through motions, smiled at dinner parties, maintained appearances while something inside rotted away.

Three days ago, Mark had called her "emotionally constipated" over drinks by this very pool. He'd meant it as a joke, but it landed like a papaya seed—hard, unexpected, impossible to swallow. Yesterday, she'd asked him if he still loved her. He'd taken forty seconds to answer.

"You know I do," he'd said finally.

She didn't know. Not anymore.

Down at the pool, a young couple splashed each other, laughing with that terrifying certainty of new love. The sphinx seemed to mock them all with its stone smile. What riddle had she failed to solve? When had the vibrant woman who once danced on tables become someone who picked at fruit and analyzed her own hollow marriage?

Elena picked up her phone, scrolled through tickets to Cairo—connecting flights through Istanbul, departure next Thursday. She'd book them today. Not for both of them. Just her.

The zombie would walk again, but this time she'd choose the direction.