The Riddle in the Kitchen

Margaret stood at the counter, chopping spinach with rhythmic violence. Green flecks scattered across the granite like confetti at a funeral. Behind her, their cat—Bast—sat on the windowsill, watching with that sphinx-like indifference only cats possess. The animal had been Elias's idea, a tenth anniversary gift that now felt like a hostage.

"You're quiet," Elias said from the table. He wasn't looking at her.

"Cooking."

"You chop spinach like you want to destroy it."

The knife caught her thumb. A bright bead of blood welled, shocking against the greens. She watched it mix with the spinach, creating something new and terrible.

"We need to talk about Prague," she said.

Elias finally looked up. In the harsh kitchen light, his face had become something she barely recognized—a sphinx of secrets, riddles wrapped in silence. Three years of affairs. Three years of her pretending not to know. The cat had known, though. Bast had stopped sleeping on his pillow months ago.

"I'm not going," he said.

"It was my dream."

"It was our dream. Things change."

Margaret dumped the ruined spinach into the pan. It hissed and collapsed, wilting instantly under heat—so much resistance giving way to nothing.

"What happened to us?" she asked, turning to face him.

Elias stood, walked to the window where Bast watched them both. The cat rubbed against his hand, traitorous creature that she was.

"We solved each other," he said quietly. "That's the problem with riddles. Once you know the answer, there's no mystery left."

Margaret looked at the cat, now purring in Elias's arms, at the spinach turning to mush in the pan, at the sphinx-like smile on her husband's face as he finally told her the truth: he wasn't going to Prague, and he wasn't staying either.

Some riddles, she realized, solve themselves by destroying the person who asked them.