The Riddle of Us

She stood in the kitchen at 2 AM, staring at the forgotten box of spinach wilting in the crisper drawer. Three days ago, it had been crisp and promising — much like their marriage. Now it was slimy with neglect, much like the silence that had settled between them in bed.

Marcus was asleep in the other room, or pretending to be. She could hear the dog, Buster, whimpering at the door. The poor creature sensed the tension in the air, the way water gathers before a storm. They'd adopted Buster together during that hopeful month in Prague, back when they still believed love could be built like IKEA furniture — following instructions, clicking pieces into place.

If only relationships worked that way.

The cable TV subscription they'd fought over — his sports packages versus her documentaries — had been disconnected yesterday. Another small death. Another wire cut. She'd told herself she didn't care, but found herself reaching for the remote anyway, muscle memory betraying her.

Marcus was like a sphinx, she realized suddenly. Enigmatic, composed, his thoughts locked behind impenetrable stone. In the beginning, his mystery had been alluring. Now it felt like a wall she'd been shouting at for seven years. His riddles weren't charming anymore; they were just evasions.

The spinach had to go. She threw it in the trash, watching it land with a wet thud. Buster whined again.

"I know," she whispered to the darkness. "I know."

She could leave. She should leave. The lawyer's number was in her phone. But wasn't that the terrible thing about loving someone? Even when they become a stranger, you keep waiting for them to remember who they used to be. You keep waiting for the sphinx to speak, to finally answer the riddle that has become your life.

The water glass beside the sink was half-empty. Or half-full. It depended on the light. It depended on the day.

She went to the door, let Buster out, and waited for morning — that merciless revealer of things we'd hoped to keep hidden in the dark.