The Riddle We Never Solved

The spinach on Marcus's plate had wilted into something unrecognizable, much like the conversation between us. Seven years of marriage, and here we sat at Le Sphinx, the restaurant where we'd had our first date, now closing next week—the irony wasn't lost on me.

I noticed something strange in his expression—a guarded look I couldn't read. Behind him, the restaurant's faux sphinx statue watched with its permanent stone smile, as if mocking the riddle we'd become: two people who loved each other but had forgotten how to be in the same room without hurting.

"You ordered the orange chicken," I said, stating the obvious because anything real felt too dangerous.

"It's your favorite," he replied, not meeting my eyes.

Lightning cracked across the skyline, throwing our table into sharp relief. In that flash, I saw it all: the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the way his hands had aged, the faint stain of spinach between his teeth that he'd never notice because I'd stopped pointing things out months ago.

"I'm leaving," I said, the words finally tasting like truth instead of betrayal.

Marcus's fork clattered against his plate. The sphinx seemed to lean forward, its ancient mystery suddenly intimate and terrifying.

"I know," he whispered. "I've been waiting for you to say it."

The storm broke then, rain lashing against the windows like applause. I reached across the table and took his hand, his fingers warm and familiar and utterly wrong. Outside, the orange glow of streetlights blurred through tears I hadn't realized I was shedding.

"We could try again," he offered, hope trembling in his voice.

But the sphinx knew better than both of us: some riddles aren't meant to be solved, only endured until their answers become undeniable. I squeezed his hand once, then let go.

"No," I said. "Some things, once they've wilted, can't be unwilted. Even if you still remember how they used to taste."