The Riddle by the Water

The corporate retreat was Elena's idea of personal hell. A desert resort with an sphinx statue by the main pool, as if subtlety were optional. She sat on the edge at 2 AM, legs in the water, nursing the complimentary Merlot that had stopped being complimentary four glasses ago.

The bull had been her boss's presentation that afternoon — aggressive, testosterone-fueled, full of market projections nobody believed. Marcus had stood at the podium, thumping his chest about Q4 deliverables, and Elena had watched her colleagues nod like synchronized swimmers.

She'd slipped out when Tony, that fox from Accounting, had cornered her near the hors d'oeuvres. His wedding ring flashed when he touched her arm, "accidentally" brushing her waist for the third time that evening.

"You seem tense, El," he'd whispered, too close, smelling of expensive cologne and married entitlement. "Want to discuss those audit findings? Somewhere private?"

Now she kicked at the water, watching ripples distort her reflection. Fifteen years of this. The coded harassment, the boys' club, the exhausting calculus of which battles were worth fighting. She'd stopped filing complaints after the third "investigation" that concluded with vague promises to "do better."

The sphinx stared impassively across the empty pool deck. Its riddle wasn't about legs in the morning, afternoon, and evening. It was simpler: How much of yourself can you lose before there's nothing left to give?

Elena finished her wine, stood up, and dropped the glass in the recycling bin. She'd send her resignation email when the sun came up. Some riddles had answers, after all. The trick was having the courage to speak them aloud.