The Riddle at Sunset

The iphone buzzed against the glass table, Richard's third ignored call in ten minutes. Elena didn't look up from her padel racket, restringing it with meticulous care as the sports bar emptied around them.

"Your wife," she said, not asking.

"Ex-wife. As of yesterday morning." Richard downed the rest of his whiskey, ordered another. "She got the house. I got the vitamin supplements and a crushing sense of déjà vu."

Elena finally met his eyes—something had shifted between them since the divorce papers were filed. They'd been colleagues for seven years, padel partners for three. The boundaries had always been clear, delineated in corporate politeness and post-game shoulder taps. Now the lines were blurring like fog on a windshield.

"You know," she said, "there's an old Egyptian myth about the sphinx. She devoured anyone who couldn't answer her riddle. But the real question wasn't what walks on four legs then two then four. The real question was: what do you do when you finally realize what you want, but you're too late to want it?"

Richard laughed, surprised. "That's not in any mythology I've ever studied."

"No," Elena smiled, bitter-sweet. "It's not."

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a fox cut across the parking lot—lean, russet, impossibly graceful. It paused at the edge of the tennis courts, ears swiveling toward them, before disappearing into the darkness.

"You know what they say about foxes," Richard murmured. "They're the only animals that smile when they're about to devour something."

"Or when they've finally caught what they've been hunting." Elena's hand covered his. "I'm not leaving tomorrow. I cancelled the transfer."

The iphone buzzed again. This time, Richard turned it off.

"Good," Elena said. "I was getting tired of riddles anyway."