The Sphinx at Center Court

Every Thursday for six months, Marcus found himself across the net from Elena, their padel racquets cutting through the humid air like unanswered questions. They hadn't spoken in seven years, not since the wedding where he'd made that toast, the one that still kept him awake at three a.m., rewriting the punchlines.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Elena asked, slamming a backhand into the corner.

Marcus watched the yellow ball ricochet off the glass wall. "Dragging myself through another quarterly review. Living the corporate zombie dream." He wiped sweat from his forehead, tasting salt and exhaustion. "I haven't felt like myself since the divorce. I'm just... going through the motions."

Elena laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. She looked tired, the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix. "That's why I started coming here," she said, gesturing at the padel court. "My husband left last year. I needed somewhere to be angry that wasn't my kitchen."

The ball bounced between them in rhythmic thuds.

"There's a sphinx at the modern art museum," Marcus said suddenly. "Bronze, headless. I went there last Sunday and stared at it for an hour. It reminded me of us—missing the part that asks the questions, stuck with all the answers we can't voice."

Elena stopped moving. The ball rolled forgotten to the fence. "I don't want to be your friend, Marcus. Not the way we were."

"I know," he said.

"But maybe," she stepped to the net, "we could be something else. Something that doesn't require pretending none of it happened."

Marcus met her gaze across the net, seeing for the first time that she wasn't just another ghost from his past, but someone who'd been haunting the same corridors.

"Pick me up at eight?" he asked.

She smiled—it reached her eyes this time. "Bring your racquet."

The sphinx would keep its riddles. They'd make their own answers.