The Sphinx at Table 4

The candlelight caught the orange peel on Elena's plate, casting long shadows across the white tablecloth. She hadn't touched her food. Marcus stirred his wine, watching the dark liquid swirl, avoiding her eyes.

"You've been a zombie for months," she said, her voice tight but controlled. "Since the promotion. Since you started spending sixty hours a week at that firm." She reached across the table, her hand hovering over his before pulling back. "I don't even know who you are anymore."

Marcus finally looked up. The restaurant's centerpiece—a replica of the Egyptian sphinx—loomed behind her, its stone face unreadable, eternal. Just like his marriage had become. "It's not that simple, El. The bull market turned. We're all scrambling."

"Bullshit," she said softly. "You're not scrambling. You're hiding."

He winced. The waiter appeared, refilling water glasses, oblivious to the fracture widening between them. Marcus noticed a fleck of spinach caught between Elena's teeth—such a small, human detail. He wanted to reach across and tell her, but the distance between them had become impassable.

"Remember when we talked about having children?" she continued. "That was three years ago, Marcus. You're still that same sphinx—mysterious, distant. I'm tired of riddles. I need answers."

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruising shades of orange and purple. A finality to the day that felt like an ending.

"I can change," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, he felt their hollowness.

Elena stood up, smoothing her dress. "No," she said. "But you can try. Just not with me."

She walked out, leaving him alone with the sphinx, the uneaten food, and the terrible weight of all the years he'd let slip through his fingers like water, barely noticed until they were gone.