The Sphinx at Sunset

The sphinx had been watching them for three years—a concrete statue perched on the neighbor's roof, its chipped face staring into their kitchen window. Elena had hated it from the start. Said it felt like judgment.

Tonight, the sunset turned the sky a bruised orange, the same color as the crate of tangerines Marcus had brought home from the farmers' market—some pathetic peace offering he'd hoped might fix what couldn't be fixed. The fruit sat on the counter between them like a glowing accusation.

"You're swimming again," she said.

Marcus blinked. "What?"

"That thing you do. When the truth gets too close. Your eyes go flat, like you're underwater. Like you're swimming away from me."

He looked down at his plate. The spinach salad he'd prepared sat untouched, wilted already in the stagnant air of their silent apartment. He'd made it because she'd been talking about eating cleaner, taking better care. Another desperate gesture at becoming the person she wanted him to be.

"I'm not swimming anywhere, El. I'm right here."

"No." Her voice cracked, a sound like something breaking underwater. "You haven't been here in months. Not since you got that promotion. Not since you started staying late. You think I don't know what those late nights really are?"

Marcus felt the air leave the room. The sphinx outside seemed to press its stone face against the glass, riddle finally solved.

"It's not what you think—"

"Then tell me what it is." She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "Give me something real, Marcus. Anything. Because I can't do this anymore. I can't keep loving a man who's always swimming away."

The orange light deepened to purple. The spinach continued its slow collapse on his plate. Outside, the sphinx watched, its ancient smile finally making sense.

Marcus opened his mouth, but the water was already rising.