The Riddle of the Sphinx

Mara stood before the brass sphinx on her desk, its enameled eyes catching the fluorescent light of her office. The artifact from her Egyptology grad school days now served as a paperweight for performance reviews she no longer gave a damn about. She felt like a zombie these days—moving through her corporate analyst role with mechanical efficiency, hollowed out by years of compromise.

"You're taking the bull by the horns," her boss had said that morning, using his favorite cliché when she announced she'd finally confront her husband about the emotional distance between them. The irony wasn't lost on her. David had become as distant as the stars he studied at the observatory, their marriage reduced to two ships passing in the night of their suburban home.

Their golden retriever, Buster, sensed the tension. The dog had stopped greeting her at the door weeks ago, instead watching with wounded eyes from his bed as she moved through rooms filled with unsaid words.

That evening, Mara drove to the community center for her swimming lesson—a birthday gift to herself, attempting to feel something, anything. The water shocked her skin awake. As she moved through the pool, the rhythmic strokes became a meditation, and the sphinx's riddle echoed in her mind: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? She'd always found comfort in its answer—man, crawling, then walking upright, then leaning on a cane in age. But at 42, between jobs and between versions of herself, she wondered if the riddle had another answer.

Floating on her back, staring at the ceiling, something shifted. The zombie feeling receded, replaced by something like clarity. Some puzzles weren't meant to be solved—only lived through. The sphinx would keep its secrets. She would keep swimming, one stroke at a time, toward whatever shore awaited.