The Riddle We Never Solved

The bottle of vitamin D pills sat between us on the nightstand like a silent accusation. Sarah's oncologist had recommended them after the scare, but neither of us touched them.

"It's just supplements," she said, turning away. Her palm pressed against the glass of the hotel window, leaving a faint mark that vanished like her patience for my optimism.

We were in Luxor because she'd wanted to see the Sphinx before—well, before everything became "before." The ancient limestone creature watched us with its broken face, eternal and indifferent. I'd read that the Sphinx's nose was destroyed by a Sufi fanatic angered by locals making offerings to it. God, I understood that impulse to destroy something people worshipped blindly.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"About how the Sphinx posed riddles that couldn't be answered,"

"And ate anyone who failed."

"Right. But we're not trying to solve anything anymore, are we?"

She turned then, and for the first time in months, really looked at me. Her illness—real or imagined, the tests were inconclusive—had become a sphinx itself. A riddle we couldn't answer: Is she sick? Will I lose her? Am I staying out of love or obligation?

"Maybe," she said, "that's our problem. We keep trying to solve each other."

She took my hand, palm against palm, lifelines crossing like destinies we couldn't read. Outside, the desert sun burned away pretense.

"Take the vitamins," she said. "Doctor's orders."

"And after?"

"After?" She smiled, ancient and young all at once. "After, we stop pretending we need answers to live."

I swallowed the pill. It tasted like surrender, like beginning, like the only certainty left: that we'd never know what came next, only that we'd face it without riddles, just ourselves.