The Last Sphinx of Cleveland

Maya felt like a **zombie** by 3 PM every day—that particular corporate undead state where her body moved through meetings and emails while her soul had already left the building. Her skin had that papery quality, her eyes the hollow stare of someone who'd seen too many quarterly projections.

She sat in her car during lunch, peeling an **orange** with surgical precision. The citrus spray hit her face, sharp and real, the only vivid thing in a world of beige carpets and fluorescent hum. She'd started crying while eating lunch in parking lots six months ago, around the time Tom moved out. Now it was just habit.

Her boss, David, was what everyone called 'the **sphinx**.' Not because he was wise, but because he sat in his corner office presenting problems without solutions, watching you struggle while saying nothing useful. This morning he'd given her that look—that sphinx stare—when she'd asked for clarification on the Henderson account.

"You're the senior lead, Maya. That's why I hired you."

A riddle without an answer. A test without a study guide.

Now she parked by the reservoir, watching **water** ripple in the wind. She'd almost driven into it three weeks ago, just to see if it would wake her up. Instead she'd called her sister, eaten an orange, and returned to her spreadsheet like nothing happened.

The phone buzzed. Tom. She stared at his name, something shifting in her chest—not hope exactly, but the ghost of it.

"I still have your sphinx figurine," he said. "The one from Egypt."

"Keep it."

"I don't want it. I want you to come get it. And maybe we could get dinner? There's that place by the water."

Maya watched an orange peel flutter across the dashboard. Somewhere inside her zombie chest, something stirred.

"I'm still at work," she said.

"I know. But you're done, aren't you?"

She wasn't. Not really. But she could be.

"Pick me up in twenty."