The Cat Who Knew the Riddle

The sphinx cat sat on Marissa's windowsill, watching us with those eyes that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe. Its hairless, wrinkled body looked like something that had survived being buried in sand for three thousand years. Ancient and wise and utterly indifferent.

"You're thinking about it again," Marissa said, pouring wine that cost more than my weekly groceries. "The investment. The opportunity."

She called it a "multi-level marketing organization," but we both knew what it was. A pyramid scheme. And I was standing at the base, looking up at all the people who'd gotten in before me, their pockets fat with the money they'd siphoned from suckers like me.

"We've been friends since sophomore year," I said. "You wouldn't steer me wrong."

Marissa's face softened into something like genuine affection. She reached across the table, took my hand. "That's exactly why I'm offering you this. I want us to rise together."

I signed the papers that night.

The money drained away in months. The revolutionary skincare products piled up in my apartment—little jars of hope that nobody wanted. When I finally called Marissa, desperate and ashamed, her number was disconnected.

She'd moved to Bali. Her Instagram showed beaches and brunches and a caption about "abundance mindset" that made my stomach turn.

That was three years ago.

Today, I'm in line at the grocery store, counting coupons like prayer beads, when I see her face on a magazine cover. FIFTY UNDER FIFTY: THE NEW WAVE OF FEMALE ENTREPRENEURS. She's beautiful, successful, standing in front of something that looks suspiciously like a pyramid made of glass.

The cashier asks if I want paper or plastic.

"Paper," I say. "It always comes back to paper."

I think about calling her, just to hear her voice one more time. To ask if any part of it was real. But I already know the answer. Some riddles don't have solutions. Some sphinxes just smile and eat you alive.