The Riddle by the Pool

Maya swallowed the vitamin D supplement with hotel room coffee—her daily ritual of manufactured optimism. Beside her, David slept on, his breathing rhythmic and infuriatingly peaceful. Another day at the couples' retreat, another attempt to fix what they'd spent seven years breaking.

Down at the infinity pool, she ordered an orange juice that tasted too much like sunshine and artificial sweetener. The resort's centerpiece: a massive goldfish pond connected to the swimming area, the koi gliding through water that turned molten in the afternoon light. She watched them, thinking about how goldfish supposedly had three-second memories. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe they remembered too much.

"You're brooding," David said, sliding into the lounge chair beside hers. His skin had grown pink in the sun.

"I'm thinking."

"About us?"

"About sphinxes," she said. "How they devour anyone who can't answer their riddles."

He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We're not a riddle, Maya. We're just tired."

She watched a goldfish break the surface, its mouth opening and closing in silent supplication. The vitamin sat in her stomach like a stone. Last night, they'd screamed at each other about nothing, about everything—about whose career mattered more, about who sacrificed more, about the version of themselves they'd sacrificed somewhere along the way.

"What if we can't answer it?" she asked quietly. "What if the sphinx eats us anyway?"

David reached for her hand across the armrest. His palm was warm, familiar. "Then maybe that's the answer. Some riddles aren't meant to be solved. Some things end so other things can begin."

The orange sun dipped below the horizon, painting the pool in impossible colors. Maya squeezed his hand and let herself hope, just for a moment, that they might become something new instead of trying to resurrect what was dead. The goldfish sank back into the depths, carrying its silent riddles with it.