The Riddle at the Bar

The sphinx of Route 9 sat in the parking lot of the Desert Inn Casino — a fiberglass replica with chipped paint and one missing ear, lit by a flickering neon sign that buzzed like an angry hornet. Elena nursing her third gin and tonic at the bar, watching it through the window while her iPhone lay face-down on the coaster like a guilty conscience.

"You gonna answer that?" The bartender gestured to the phone, which had been vibrating at two-minute intervals for the last hour.

"It's just David."

"Your husband."

"Soon to be ex, if these papers ever get signed." Elena spun the glass. "He's probably checking if I fed the fish."

"You have kids?"

"A goldfish. Named Bartholomew. I think David loved that fish more than me, near the end. Fish don't ask questions. Fish don't wonder why you come home smelling like someone else's cologne. Fish don't Sphinx."

"Sphinx?"

"You know — ask impossible riddles. 'What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, three legs in the evening?' What kind of monster creates a puzzle where the wrong answer gets you thrown off a cliff?" Elena's phone lit up again. 'Can we talk?' it read, and she thought about how David used to trace the constellation of freckles on her shoulder while they watched bad movies, how he'd made her coffee every morning for seven years without complaint, how she'd started keeping secrets before she even had a real reason to.

Outside, the fiberglass sphinx kept its silence, its painted smile suggesting it knew something she didn't.

"Here's what I think," Elena said, pushing the phone away. "I think the sphinx's mistake wasn't asking riddles. It was thinking there was only one right answer."

The phone went dark. The bartender poured another drink. Outside, a tumbleweed rolled past the silent figure with the missing ear, bound for somewhere else entirely.