The Riddle of the Sphinx at 2 AM

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with bruises, much like Elena's marriage after fifteen years. She sliced through the fruit's yielding flesh at 2:47 AM, while her husband—the man who used to bring her coffee in bed, who once slow-danced with her in a kitchen much like this one—slept in the guest room down the hall.

Buster, their elderly golden retriever, padded into the kitchen on stiff joints, his clouded eyes fixed on the papaya's juices dripping onto the cutting board. He'd been eating spinach mixed into his kibble lately, vet's orders for his aging heart. Elena had started adding spinach to her own meals too, some quiet bid at shared survival that now felt tragically optimistic.

The sphinx statue—replica from their ill-fated trip to Egypt, where they'd fought about something so trivial she couldn't remember it now—watched from the top of the refrigerator. Its stone riddle had always seemed like a cruel joke: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening? Elena had answered: a marriage. David had laughed, not understanding.

She arranged the papaya and spinach on a plate, absurdly elegant for her predawn breakdown. Buster nudged her hand with his wet nose, and something in her chest cracked open. The sphinx's painted eyes seemed to bore into her, demanding the answer to another riddle: when did you stop being happy?

But maybe the riddle wasn't when. Maybe the riddle was: what do you do when you realize you've spent fifteen years becoming someone you don't recognize?

Elena sat on the cold tile floor, let Buster rest his graying muzzle on her knee, and finally cried.