The Riddle We Couldn't Solve

The spinach wilted in the colander like a conversation that had gone on too long—once vibrant, now reduced to something limp and regrettable. Elena stood at the kitchen island, watching her husband Marcus through the sliding glass door. He was on the padel court with her, the woman from his office, their laughter carrying across the courtyard like glass breaking in slow motion.

Their dog, Barnaby, a golden retriever who had once belonged to Marcus's mother, pressed his warm weight against Elena's leg. He was thirteen now, his muzzle gone white, his hips giving out. Some mornings she had to carry him outside. Tonight he looked at her with those ancient, knowing eyes, as if he understood everything and nothing at all.

The sphinx figurine on the windowsill—Marcus's pretentious little souvenir from that business trip to Cairo—seemed to mock her. Its riddle wasn't written in stone, but in the half-empty whiskey glass beside it, in Marcus's phone lighting up at 2 AM with "work emergencies," in the way he'd stopped touching her in bed. The riddle was: what do you call a marriage that looks perfect from the outside but is hollowing itself out like a termite-ridden beam?

Elena had played baseball in college, shortstop, the position that required quick reflexes and the ability to predict where the ball would go before it left the bat. She should have seen this coming. She should have turned her glove, positioned herself, made the play. Instead she'd stood frozen while life hit a line drive straight through her heart.

Marcus came inside, the smell of court dust and another woman's perfume clinging to him. He washed his hands in the sink, the water running and running, like he was trying to wash something away—or maybe washing her away.

"Spinach again?" he asked, not turning around.

"It was fresh this morning," she said. "Everything goes bad eventually."

He didn't respond. The sphinx watched them both, its stone face impassive, holding the answer to a ricle they were both too cowardly to speak aloud.

Barnaby whimpered, and Elena bent down to stroke his velvet ears. At least love had been honest with the dog—he would leave, and it would hurt, and they would both survive.

The spinach in the colander finished dripping. She turned off the water. Some things, once wilted, can never be made crisp again.