The Digital Sphinx

The pyramid of the Luxor Hotel rose against the desert sky like some architectural dare, its glass face catching the last light of another meaningless day in paradise.

I should have been at my daughter's birthday. Instead, I was at the sales conference, watching Kevin from Accounting position himself next to the CFO like a fox scenting opportunity. He'd been grooming this moment for months—the subtle compliments, the "accidental" run-ins in the elevator, the carefully cultivated reputation as the guy who gets things done. The corporate food chain was its own kind of ancient monument, and Kevin knew exactly which stones to step on to climb higher.

My iphone buzzed in my pocket. Marcus again.

*We need to talk.*

Twelve years of marriage reduced to three words that meant everything and nothing at once. I stared at the screen, the letters swimming together like hieroglyphs I couldn't quite translate. Marcus had become a sphinx these past months—enigmatic, distant, his silence posing riddles I was too exhausted to solve. The man who used to leave post-it notes on my coffee mug now lived in our house like a ghost, present only in the space he took up in rooms I entered.

"What's on your mind?"

I looked up. Kevin stood there, CNN-ready smile plastered across his face, a drink in each hand. He must have seen me check my phone.

"Just thinking about hieroglyphs," I said.

He laughed, confused but polite. "Work mode, right? Never really turn it off."

If he only knew.

The fox had won. Tomorrow he'd likely get the promotion. Tonight Marcus would probably say whatever it was he'd been holding back—I'd seen the lawyer's consultation in his browser history, open like an accusation. The pyramid would keep rising toward heaven, indifferent to the people struggling inside it. And I would keep showing up, keep answering emails, keep pretending the structure wasn't hollow.

Some riddles have no answer. Some sphinxes never reveal their secrets.