The Sphinx in Her Pocket

Sarah stared at the iphone on her nightstand, its screen illuminated with unanswered messages from three months ago. The device had become a sphinx—guarding secrets, asking riddles she couldn't answer. Why had it ended so quietly? What had she missed? She filled a glass with water from the bathroom tap, watching the way light caught the ripples. Her apartment felt too large now, filled with the echoes of conversations that used to fill every corner.

In the living room, their shared goldfish—Bubbles, absurdly named by him—swam in endless circles around its bowl. The creature's three-second memory seemed like a blessing. If only she could forget that easily.

The goldfish had been his idea. "Low maintenance," he'd said, pressing the warm plastic bag into her hands that first night. "Like us." She'd laughed then, not recognizing the foreshadowing.

Now she watched the fish press its mouth to the glass, opening and closing in silent supplication. Was it hungry? Lonely? Did it remember the person who used to tap the bowl and whisper, "Hey, buddy," every morning?

Her thumb hovered over the iphone, the ghost of a habit. She wanted to call, to hear his voice, to demand the sphinx surrender its answer: was any of it real?

Instead, she dropped the phone into her pocket and carried the fish bowl to the kitchen counter. The water trembled with her movement, distorting the fish's already strange, searching gaze.

"Time for a change," she said aloud, surprised by the steadiness of her voice.

Some riddles answer themselves not through revelation, but through the slow erosion of asking. She would keep the fish—Bubbles deserved better than abandonment—and eventually, she would change the water. Eventually, she would delete the messages.

Some sphinxes, she realized, don't hold answers at all. They only hold mirrors.