The Riddle of Want

Maya's copper hair spilled across her desk like spilled ink, matching the amber glow of her desk lamp. It was 2 AM at the auction house, and the sphinx statue from the 1920 Egyptian expedition stared at her with its missing limestone eyes. She was supposed to be cataloging it, but instead she was thinking about David.

Three weeks ago, David had brought her an orange during a terrible shift—just a simple, imperfect fruit from his lunch. He'd said, "You look like you need something bright." That small gesture had unraveled her. They'd been colleagues for years, dancing around each other like the sphinx's ancient riddle: what walks on four legs, then two, then three? She'd been walking on four for so long—crawling through lonely days, then two legs through work, and she was terrified of the third.

The sphinx's lips were worn smooth from centuries of wind and prayer, but Maya knew the real riddle wasn't about legs. It was about want. About how David looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice. About how her own heart clenched whenever he entered the room with his terrible coffee and his terrible jokes.

She stood and walked to the statue, running her fingers along the rough limestone. The sphinx had guarded secrets for millennia, but Maya's secrets felt heavier somehow. She wanted David—his gentleness, his quiet competence, the way he noticed when she was drowning and offered her orange segments like they were something sacred.

Her phone buzzed. David: "Still at work? Want me to bring you dinner?"

Maya typed: "Yes." Then added: "And maybe another orange?"

The sphinx seemed to smile, its riddle finally answered: some creatures don't need three legs to fall. They only need two hearts and the courage to let them walk together.