The Sphinx at Sunset

The spinach from our first course had lodged stubbornly between his front teeth—a tiny green flag that I hadn't mentioned, just as I hadn't mentioned the text messages I'd found on his phone three weeks ago. Some silences become cable-strong: they bind more tightly than explanation ever could.

We sat on the terrace of the hotel restaurant in Santorini, watching the sun bleed into the sea in shades of violent orange that matched the cocktail I'd been nursing for forty-five minutes. Thomas was talking about his promotion, his hands animated, his charm—that fox-like cleverness that had first drawn me to him—fully deployed.

"You're quiet," he said, finally noticing the weight I'd been carrying in the space between us.

"Just thinking." I swirled the ice in my glass. "About riddles."

"Riddles?"

"The sphinx," I said, gesturing toward the distant mountains where the dying light carved shadows that could have been anything. "She asked: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer was man. But I've been wondering about another version. What walks on two legs but pretends to be four? What speaks truth with its body while its tongue lies?"

The spinach was still there. He still hadn't noticed.

"You've been reading too much Greek mythology," he said, laughing, but his eyes didn't crinkle the way they used to when we first met fifteen years ago.

"Maybe. Or maybe I've just started paying attention."

I signaled for the check.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and for the first time, something like fear flickered across his face.

"Solving the riddle," I said, standing up. "The sphinx ate those who couldn't answer. I'm just choosing not to be dinner."

The orange sun had finally slipped beneath the horizon. Behind me, Thomas sat very still, the spinach still clinging to his tooth like a secret he'd never bothered to keep.