The Riddle of Us

The thunder had been threatening all evening, a low growl that lived in Elena's chest as she chopped spinach at the counter. Marcus sat at the kitchen island, swirling wine in his glass, his back to her. Between them lay the papaya she'd bought at the market—its bright orange flesh like an exposed wound, seeds glistening in the harsh overhead light.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Elena said. Not a question. She'd seen the signs for months: the packed suitcase he claimed was just for business trips, the way he flinched when she touched him, the riddles he spoke instead of truths.

Marcus turned. His face was weathered now in ways it hadn't been three years ago when they'd bought that brass sphinx paperweight in Cairo. It sat on the counter between them, its wings frozen mid-flight, its smile knowing something they didn't.

"Elena—"

"Don't. Just don't." She dumped the spinach into the pan, where it hissed and collapsed like something dying. "I asked you a question in Egypt, you know. At the temple. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening. You said it was a man. I said it was us."

Lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the kitchen in harsh white. For a moment, Elena saw the scar on Marcus's temple from the accident last year—when he'd almost died, when he'd promised he'd never leave, when he'd looked at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

"The answer's changed," Marcus said quietly.

"What is it now?"

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing walks anywhere anymore."

The papaya sat between them, untouched, its sweetness already fermenting in the warm kitchen air. Some things, Elena realized, rot before you ever get to taste them.