The Riddle of Us

The papaya sat on the counter, its orange flesh already softening into rot—a perfect metaphor for what we'd become. Marcus was late again. His latest text had come through three hours ago: 'Running late. Don't wait.'

I chopped spinach with aggressive precision, the knife echoing in our too-quiet apartment. We used to cook together. We used to talk. Now, we shared space like two strangers who'd signed incompatible leases.

My iphone lit up. Not Marcus. A reminder: 'Take Vitamin D supplement.' As if a pill could fix what the winter had done to us, what the months of silence had eroded. I swallowed it dry, thinking about how we'd met at that Egyptian exhibit, standing before a reproduction of the Great Sphinx. You'd whispered something about riddles and answers, how some mysteries weren't meant to be solved. I'd thought it was romantic then. Now I wondered if you'd been warning me.

The door clicked open. You didn't call out 'I'm home' anymore. You just entered, already pulling your phone from your pocket, already somewhere else.

'Still cooking?' you asked, spotting the spinach.

'I was hungry.'

You nodded, moving past me toward the bedroom. 'I ate.'

The words hung there, small and terrible. We used to wait for each other. We used to be hungry at the same time.

'The papaya's going bad,' I said.

You paused, halfway through the doorway. 'I'll get to it.'

You never would. We both knew.

I scraped the spinach into the trash, watching our dinner spiral down into darkness. Some riddles don't have answers. Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved. The sphinx had been right all along.

'You know what today is?' I asked.

You turned back, finally really looking at me. 'Tuesday?'

'Three years.'

Your face changed. Something flickered there—guilt, maybe. Or just surprise that I'd been counting when you'd stopped. 'Oh. I—'

'It's fine,' I said, and it almost was. 'The sphinx asked her riddle once, then moved on. Maybe that's the mistake we made. Asking the same question, expecting different answers.'

You didn't speak. You didn't move toward me. You just stood there, iphone in hand, already checking out.

I rinsed my plate and left yours sitting there, spinach-stained and unfinished. Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved. Some riddles aren't meant to be answered. Some papayas just rot.