The Riddle of Left Things

Elara stood in the center of what used to be their living room, surrounded by the half-packed remnants of three years together. David had moved out two weeks ago, leaving her to parse their shared life into his and hers, yours and mine, keep and discard.

In her hand she held a papaya, improbably soft and fragrant, something they'd bought together the morning before he told her he couldn't do this anymore. She'd let it sit on the counter, watching it ripen into an indictment of her refusal to move forward. Now it sat in her palm like a heart, overripe and weeping sweetness.

She tossed it into the trash bag.

The apartment's cable connection had been cut yesterday — David's doing, though he'd claimed it was some technical error. Now the television stood as a blank mirror, reflecting her back at herself in that terrible, unflattering light of endings. She'd spent the past two weeks watching nothing, feeling somehow that the silence was better than the stories they used to lose themselves in, stories about couples who figured it out, who stayed together.

On the bookshelf perched the sphinx paperweight he'd brought back from Egypt — a business trip she hadn't been invited on, back when she was still pretending everything was fine. Its stone face wore that same enigmatic smile: I know something you don't. The riddle wasn't what walks on four legs then two then four. The riddle was how two people could love each other and still not be enough.

She was about to wrap it when she remembered his voice, late one night, drunk on expensive whiskey and despair: "I feel like I'm always solving riddles with you. I just want to be known."

In the refrigerator, a container of spinach had gone slimy and black, another testament to her inertia. She'd planned to make them that salad they both liked, the one with the warm bacon dressing and the perfectly soft-boiled eggs. But then came his announcement, and then came the days of sleeping until noon and then lying awake until dawn, and the spinach had quietly rotted, unconcerned with human heartbreak.

Elara sank to the floor amid the half-filled boxes and let herself cry, really cry, for the first time since he'd left. The sphinx watched from the shelf. The disconnected TV offered no comfort. The rotting spinach perfumed the air with the scent of wasted time.

When she stood again, something had shifted. The riddle wasn't about them anymore. The riddle was what came next.

She wrapped the sphinx in bubble wrap and placed it in the David box. Then she carried the trash bag downstairs, feeling lighter with each step, leaving behind what was his and keeping what was hers, ready at last to figure out the answer on her own.