The Riddle at Sunset

Maria stood on the balcony of their tenth-floor apartment, watching the sunset bleed **orange** across the Miami skyline. Behind her, David moved through the kitchen like a **zombie**—dead-eyed, mechanically loading the dishwasher, the routine of twelve years hollowing him out from the inside.

"We used to have conversations," she said, not turning around. "Actual conversations."

"We're tired, Maria. We work. We pay bills. That's what adults do."

"That's what **zombies** do."

The **cat**, Bast, wound between her ankles, purring like a small, furry engine of contentment. At least one of them was happy. Maria envied the creature's ability to simply exist without questioning the architecture of her life.

David finally looked up. "What do you want me to say? That I'm unfulfilled? That I wonder what happened to us? Is that the answer you're looking for?"

"I want you to be honest. I want to know if there's anything left."

He dried his hands on a towel, approached her slowly. When he reached out, she flinched—just slightly, but he noticed. His **palm** hovered inches from her shoulder, then dropped to his side.

"You're like a **sphinx**," he said quietly. "Always asking riddles, never satisfied with the answer."

"Maybe the riddle is whether we should stay together."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Outside, a **palm tree** swayed in the evening breeze, fronds catching the last light like fingers grasping at something just out of reach.

"I still love you," David said, but the words felt heavy, like stones dropped in deep water. "I just don't know if that's enough anymore."

Maria finally turned to face him. His eyes were tired, his posture resigned. She saw the man she'd fallen for at twenty-two, and the stranger he'd become at thirty-four. Both existed in the same body, layered like sediment.

"Then we have to figure it out," she said. "Because I can't do this for another twelve years. I can't be undead together."

He nodded, once. "Okay. Tomorrow. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

But they both knew tomorrow was just another word for eventually, and eventually was just another word for never. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the apartment fell into darkness, neither of them moving to turn on the lights.