The Riddle at Sunset

Sarah stood on her balcony, clutching her iPhone like a weapon or a lifeline—she couldn't tell the difference anymore. David's last text still glowed on the screen: "We need to talk. Tonight."

She felt like a zombie moving through her days since the promotion, since the late nights at the firm began to hollow her out. The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter, unsigned for three weeks.

Below, the Hudson reflected the dying sun—great bruises of purple and orange spreading across the water. A sphinx moth battered itself against the balcony light, its dusty wings frantic. David had once told her sphinx moths were named for the pose larvae take when threatened: rear up, freeze, expose the soft underbelly. What riddle was she supposed to solve now?

Her iPhone buzzed. David: "Are you home?"

She thought of their last real conversation, six months ago, over breakfast at that cramped diner downtown. He'd ordered orange juice and asked if she was happy. She'd checked her work email instead of answering. The silence between them had taken on weight, density, gravity.

Now the sun was nearly gone. The sphinx moth had abandoned the light for the darkness beyond the railing. She could go inside and pour the wine she'd bought, pretend tomorrow would be different. Or she could type back: "Yes. Come over."

Or something true.

Sarah watched the water glittering below, countless reflections breaking apart in the current. She thumbed the iPhone screen to life. The cursor blinked in the message field like a heartbeat, or a bomb timer, or the beginning of something that might either save her or finish what they'd started seven years ago.

She typed: "I don't know how to talk to you anymore."

Then she deleted it and wrote: "I'm scared."

Then she deleted that too and pressed call.