The Riddle of the Sphinx

The riddle of the sphinx had nothing on the riddle of Elena's marriage.

She stood in their bedroom, her **pyramid** of silk scarves collapsed on the floor where she'd thrown them. His **bull** market investments had become bearish, along with his temper. The **orange** light of sunset filtered through blinds, casting everything in the melancholy hue of endings.

On his dresser sat the **hat** he'd worn to their wedding—crushed, like whatever they'd once promised each other. Next to it, the little glass **sphinx** figurine from their trip to Cairo, its painted smile mocking her.

"What are we?" she'd asked him this morning, after he'd forgotten their anniversary dinner for the third time.

"We're fine, El. Just... busy."

They weren't fine. They were strangers who happened to share a mortgage and a dog.

She picked up the sphinx, its weight comforting in her palm. In Egypt, their guide had told them the sphinx asked travelers a riddle: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? A man, throughout his life.

Her riddle was simpler: When do you leave?

The answer came with the clarity of the orange deepening to purple beyond the window. You leave when staying becomes a form of disappearing.

She packed one bag. Left the hat, the sphinx, the photos. Some puzzles don't need solving—only outgrowing.

The bull of doubt had been charging through her marriage for years. Tonight, she finally stepped aside.