The Riddle at Table Seven

Maya's hair had started falling out three weeks after the chemotherapy ended—thin, fragile strands that clogged the shower drain like forgotten promises. Now, six months remission, it grew back wild and defiant, a dark halo she couldn't quite tame with product or patience.

She picked at the spinach salad at her sister's engagement lunch, pushing wilting leaves around her plate while David's thumb scrolled ceaselessly across his iPhone screen. The blue light reflected in his eyes, turning them shallow and opaque.

"You're missing it," Maya said softly. "Emma's about to cut the cake."

"Work crisis," David muttered, not looking up. "The new client—they're impossible. Like trying to solve a sphinx riddle without any hints."

Maya swallowed. Something sour rose in her throat. Because wasn't that exactly what they'd become? Two travelers posed at the crossroads, offering answers to questions neither dared ask aloud. What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? The answer: a human being, crawling through infancy, standing proud in adulthood, stumbling toward death with cane in hand.

She had been the three-legged creature these past months. David had carried her through treatment, held her head while she retched, slept in hospital chairs that left permanent creases in his spine. But somewhere between diagnosis and remission, they'd forgotten how to be the two-legged creatures who once argued about paint colors and laughed until their ribs ached.

Now his phone vibrated against the table—a third wheel, a relentless reminder of the world waiting beyond their carefully constructed silence.

"David," she said, reaching across to cover his hand with hers. His skin was warm, familiar. "The spinach. Is it stuck?"

He blinked, finally meeting her eyes. "What?"

"My teeth. I've been hiding behind this napkin for five minutes wondering if I have green stuck between my front teeth while you save your career."

David set down the phone. He smiled—really smiled, crinkles appearing at the corners of eyes she'd missed without quite realizing it. "There's nothing there, Maya. You're perfect."

The sphinx remained silent. The riddle solved itself not in answers but in the asking, in the reaching across tables, in choosing to see clearly.