The Riddle of Us

The sphinx stared at me from the postcard on the nightstand, its stone face frozen in that eternal, enigmatic smirk. Beside me, David slept—the way he always did now: turned away, breathing steady and remote, creating an ocean of mattress between us.

I slipped out of bed, grabbing the keycard. The hotel hallway stretched long and sterile, but downstairs, the pool waited. Swimming had always been my escape—silence and suspension, the world muffled to a distant hum. I'd hoped this trip to Egypt would save us, but instead, we'd become strangers in a foreign land, speaking only in platitudes and excuses.

The water was cold, shocking me awake. I moved through laps, counting strokes to keep from counting the months we'd been drifting apart. Back at the room, the cable news droned quietly—David's preferred background noise, a safety net of meaningless chatter to fill the empty spaces between us.

I paused at the edge of the pool, watching the hotel's television through the window. Some reporter was standing before the actual Great Sphinx, going on about restoration projects and tourism revenue. The riddle wasn't what the creature represented—it was why we kept pretending our marriage wasn't already dead.

Later, dripping water onto the beige carpet, I found David sitting up. "I was worried," he said, not looking up from his phone.

"Just swimming."

"You've been doing that a lot lately."

"It helps me think."

He finally met my eyes. "What are you thinking about?"

The sphinx on the postcard seemed to laugh. Some riddles have no answers, only the courage to finally stop asking.

"Us," I said. "I'm thinking about us."