The Last Question

The dinner party had been dragging on for hours when David found himself staring at the centerpiece—a small stone sphinx replica that seemed to mock him with its permanent, enigmatic smile. Around him, conversations about promotions and property values swirled like artificial sweetener in lukewarm coffee.

"You look like a zombie," Sarah whispered beside him, her hand finding his beneath the table. "Don't let them see you bleeding."

He almost laughed. Three years of corporate restructuring, two rounds of layoffs, and his team had been reduced to walking dead—programmers who coded in their sleep, managers who managed nothing but their own survival. They were all zombies now, just some were better at applying fresh makeup.

"It's just..." David rubbed his eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I'm bearing the weight of everyone's expectations. My parents. The mortgage. The fucking sphinx riddle of 'what are you doing with your life?'"

Sarah's thumb traced circles on his palm. The same question had haunted her brother's suicide note. The one nobody talked about.

"We could leave," she said quietly. "Tomorrow. Just... drive until the questions stop."

A waiter dropped a tray somewhere in the distance. The crash echoed like a gunshot.

"And become what?" David's voice cracked. "Different zombies in a different city?"

She turned to face him fully, something fierce in her eyes. "Or we could stop being zombies. We could bear the unbearable question and actually answer it."

"Which is?"

"Who do we want to be when we're not pretending anymore?"

The sphinx seemed to smile a little less enigmatically. Outside, someone honked their horn, again and again, like they'd finally remembered they were alive.

David took her hand. "We could start with getting the hell out of here."

They left without saying goodbye, the sphinx still smiling its knowing smile at nothing at all.