The Riddle at the Table

The spinach leaf clung stubbornly to Marcus's incisor, a small green flag of surrender as Elena watched him across the candlelit table. They'd been together three years, and somehow she'd never told him about the food in his teeth. Tonight felt different—tonight, everything felt different.

"My phone's buzzing," Marcus said, reaching for his iPhone like a lifeline. The screen illuminated his face in harsh blue light, washing away the candle's warm intimacy. "Work. The new campaign." He tapped out a response without looking at her.

Elena thought about the corporate pyramid they'd both been climbing, how Marcus had stopped asking about her art installations months ago. She'd become something like his office goldfish—present, swimming in the same tank, but ultimately decorative and forgettable. The thought made her chest ache.

"You know what I was thinking about today?" she said, surprising herself. "The Sphinx."

Marcus glanced up, thumbs still hovering over his screen. "The riddle thing?"

"No. That nobody remembers what she asked. Only Oedipus's answer." She took a breath. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening. The answer's man. But the question—the question was about him." She paused. "Marcus, when's the last time you asked me a question? About me?"

The candle flickered between them. He set down his phone slowly, the first time all evening.

"You have spinach," she said gently, and watched as something flickered across his face—confusion, then embarrassment, then something like recognition. He wiped it away with his napkin, and for a moment, the old Marcus surfaced. The one who asked. The one who wanted to know.

"Elena," he started, but she was already reaching for her bag. The riddle wasn't about legs or stages of life anymore. The question was simpler: What walks away when you stop paying attention?

Answer: Everything worth keeping.