The Sphinx at Midnight

I run through the rain-slicked streets at 2 AM, my breath fogging in the cold air, running because sleeping means dreaming and dreaming means remembering. Lightning fractures the sky above Seattle, illuminating the empty storefronts like flash photography of a ghost town.

The divorce papers were signed three weeks ago. Sarah took the house. I kept the freedom I didn't want. The dog—a golden retriever named Buster who'd greet me with toys in his mouth every evening—stayed with her. It was only fair. She'd found him at a shelter six years ago, back when we were still trying to have a baby, back when we thought a pet might fill the spaces between us.

I stop running beneath an overpass, gasping, my knees burning. That's when I see it: a sphinx sculpture through a gallery window, its wings partially spread, its human face carved in something that looks like granite but probably isn't. We'd seen one in Egypt during our last good year, standing beneath actual lightning at the pyramids while Sarah quoted Oedipus. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?" she'd whispered, rain soaking through our clothes.

Now I know the answer: a man who loses everything gradually, then all at once.

The sphinx in the gallery window seems to mock me with its riddle: What happens when you build a life on something that was never real?

Thunder cracks overhead. I start running again, toward Sarah's house, toward the dog who might still remember me, toward whatever version of myself might be worth salvaging. The sphinx watches me go, its stone face unreadable, its ancient mouth sealed around all the secrets it will never tell.