The Riddle of Autumn

Mara stood on the fire escape, watching the cable car sway against the San Francisco skyline like a pendulum marking time she couldn't get back. Behind her, in their apartment of seven years, David was probably still asleep — or pretending to be.

On the railing beside her coffee sat his vitamin regimen: a neat line of amber and white capsules she'd organized every Sunday morning since his surgery. Two years of devotion, measured in daily supplements.

She thought about the baseball game they'd attended yesterday — their anniversary. Throughout the innings, David had checked his phone while she watched a young couple two rows down, their hands tangled together, oblivious to everything but each other. The seventh-inning stretch had come and gone, and David hadn't once looked at her.

They'd met at work, both junior architects at the same firm. He'd been brilliant, charming, the kind of man who quoted philosophy and actually made it sound seductive. Now he was sphinx-like in his silence, impossible to read, guarding whatever secrets lay behind those enigmatic eyes. Riddle me this, riddle me that — their marriage had become a series of unanswered questions.

"You're up early," David's voice came from the open window. He sounded tired, or maybe she was just hearing what she expected to hear.

"Thinking about the Golden State project," she lied. The sphinx remained silent on its secrets.

He joined her on the fire escape, the morning cold making them both shiver. For a moment, they watched the cable car together, suspended between destinations.

"Mara —"

"Don't," she said. "Just don't."

She picked up the vitamins and tipped them into his palm, their fingers touching for the last time. Some riddles weren't meant to be solved. Some games, you played until the bottom of the ninth, but there was always another season, always another chance. Unless you finally decided to walk away.

"I'm staying with Sarah tonight," she said, and the sphinx finally let her go.