The Sphinx at Last Call

The bear of it was, she'd stopped recognizing the woman in the mirror three years ago. Elena sat at the corner of the bar, nursing her third whiskey, watching the bartender's golden retriever sleep in the corner. The dog twitched in its dreams, chasing something invisible, and Elena felt a sudden, sharp kinship with it.

'You look like someone solving a riddle,' a voice said beside her.

She turned. A man—maybe fifty, silver at the temples, eyes that had seen too much and forgotten nothing. He gestured toward the neon sphinx sign buzzing fitfully above the bar's entrance. Its faux-Egyptian wings had faded from gold to something resembling bruised parchment.

'The sphinx asked the right question,' Elena said. 'What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer's a man, but the real truth's in the cane.' She swirled her drink. 'We all end up leaning on something.'

The man ordered a drink, something dark and expensive. 'My wife died last Tuesday,' he said, conversationally. 'I keep expecting to hear her dog scratch at the door. She had a pug. Ugly little bastard.' He paused. 'I don't know what to do with the dog.'

Elena looked at him—really looked. 'Give it to someone who needs something to love more than they need to be right about things.' She finished her drink. 'That's the riddle we never solve: how to keep loving when the keeping hurts.'

Outside, dawn was beginning to paint the sky in bruised purples. The sphinx sign flickered and died. Elena walked home, her cane clicking against the pavement, already forgetting the stranger's face but remembering the weight of his voice.

Some bears you carry until they become part of your own bones.