The Riddle of Left Field

Elena stood at the window of her forty-second floor apartment, watching the baseball stadium lights flicker on in the distance. It had been three months since Marcus's funeral, and still she found herself reaching for her phone to text him about the game, about the pitcher's perfect curve ball, about the way the sphinx of moths that gathered near the floodlights made her think of Egyptian hieroglyphs and their shared college mythology course.

She'd been in the stands that day—the last day of his life—when he'd turned to her between innings and said, "You know what the sphinx's riddle really teaches us? It's not about the answer. It's about how we're always becoming something else."

She'd laughed, sipping her overpriced beer. "Always so deep, Marc. Just enjoy the damn game."

Now she understood. The riddle of existence wasn't a puzzle to be solved but a process to be endured. Marcus had been her friend for twenty-three years, since freshman orientation when they'd both reached for the same copy of The Mythic Structure at the campus bookstore. They'd survived failed marriages, career collapses, his diagnosis. She'd held his hand while the nurse removed the morphine drip for the last time.

The baseball game below her ended—she could see the fans streaming out like ants from a disturbed hill. Her phone buzzed. A message from Marcus's sister: "Found this in his things. Thought you'd want it."

A photo appeared: Marcus and Elena at a baseball game, years ago, both young and unknowing. On the back, in his handwriting: "For the sphinx who keeps me honest."

Elena pressed the phone to her chest, the first real smile in months tugging at her lips. Some riddles don't need answers. Some friends don't really leave.