The Riddle Between Us

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, methodically chopping spinach. Each leaf released a sharp, earthy scent that filled the small apartment. The knife's rhythm against the cutting board was the only sound in the room, aside from David's breathing in the living room.

She'd made this dinner a hundred times before. Spinach and feta stuffed chicken, roasted until golden. But tonight, the orange glow of sunset through the window made everything look unfamiliar—their life together illuminated in harsh, unflattering light.

"You're quiet," David said from the sofa. He'd been saying that a lot lately.

"Just cooking." She didn't turn around.

The silence between them had become a sphinx—ancient, riddle-mouthed, demanding answers she couldn't provide. What do you do when you still love someone but can no longer remember why you chose them? How do you explain that the ordinary erosion of days, the slow accretion of small disappointments, has worn down something essential?

An orange rolled across the counter. Margaret caught it before it could fall. The fruit's waxy skin felt suddenly symbolic—bright and cheerful on the outside, but underneath, segments that separate easily, that don't quite hold together.

She remembered their wedding day. David had read a poem about riddles and choices. Something about how we solve each other. She'd thought it was romantic then. Now she wondered if some riddles aren't meant to be solved.

"Margaret?" His voice was closer now.

She turned, orange in hand. He stood in the kitchen doorway, his expression unreadable.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," she said, the words finally coming loose.

The sphinx had been waiting all along for her to speak its name.

David nodded, almost imperceptibly. He reached for the orange, his fingers brushing hers. "I know," he said. "I've been wondering when you'd say it."

Outside, the last light faded. The spinach lay wilted and unused on the cutting board, a meal they'd never eat, a life they'd no longer live.