The Riddle of Us

Marcus stood on the balcony of their honeymoon suite, watching the orange sun bleed into the Mediterranean. Below, water lapped against stone, rhythmic and indifferent. Inside, Elena slept—or pretended to. They hadn't spoken since the incident at dinner, when he'd asked, in that tone she hated, if she was happy anymore.

She'd looked at him then like he was a stranger, or worse: like he was exactly who she feared he'd become. A zombie of a husband, going through motions, paycheck to paycheck, kiss on cheek to kiss on. The question hung between them now, a sphinx with no riddle, only silence.

"You used to look at me," she'd said, not meeting his eyes. "Now you just see me."

He wanted to protest. He did see her—her patience with his mother, her ruthless efficiency at work, the way she still hummed Sinatra when she thought no one was listening. But she was right about the looking. The last time he'd really seen her, they were twenty-three and broke, eating oranges in a park because they couldn't afford dinner, laughing at their own ambition. Now they had everything except whatever this was supposed to be.

The water called to him. Not to jump—God, no—but to dissolve, to become something fluid and unrecognizable. Instead he went inside.

Elena was sitting up, watching the door. Her face was that sphinx again, inscrutable and ancient in the half-light.

"I'm still in here," she said softly. "Are you?"

Marcus crossed the room and sat beside her. For the first time in years, he didn't know what came next. The sphinx had finally spoken its riddle, and somehow, terrifyingly, they both had to answer.