The Riddle of the Afternoon

Margaret stood before the bathroom mirror, tweezing a chin hair that had appeared overnight. Another damn indignity of fifty. She adjusted her wig, the hat she wore now, literally and metaphorically. Three months since David left, and she was still performing for an audience of one.

In the kitchen, Barnaby—the golden retriever she'd insisted they needed, back when they still needed things together—stared at her with the existential weight of a creature who understood nothing and expected everything. His vitamin supplements sat on the counter, expensive little promises of longevity she measured into his breakfast each morning with maternal precision. If only she took such care with herself.

She'd bought fresh spinach at the farmer's market, planning to cook properly for once. The wilted green mess now sat in the colander, mocking her ambition. She pushed it aside and reached for the gin.

The riddle had come to her yesterday, standing in line at the bank: What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening? The sphinx's question. The answer was man—crawling as infant, walking as adult, leaning on cane in age. But at fifty, Margaret felt she'd skipped the walking part entirely. She'd moved from crawling to stumbling, bypassing whatever upright existence she'd been promised.

She'd built a career she didn't want, married a man who'd loved her projection more than her person, and now inhabited a house that felt like a museum of someone else's life. The sphinx had devoured those who couldn't solve her riddle. Margaret had solved it—she knew exactly what she was—but the answer hadn't saved her.

Barnaby whined, nudging her hand with his wet nose. "I know," she said, scratching behind his ears. "But you're easy to love. You don't expect me to be happy."

The spinach whispered something about rot from the counter. She poured another drink. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she would cook something real. Tomorrow she would call her mother. Tomorrow she would figure out what the middle part was supposed to feel like, the two-legged noon where you simply walked without riddles or canes or the weight of all the tomorrows you'd spent.

Barnaby rested his head on her foot. Margaret finished her drink and adjusted her wig. The audience would expect a show tonight.