The Sphinx in Suburbia

The orange sunset bled into the kitchen ceiling as David came home from another day at the firm—glassy-eyed, shoulders slumped, moving through the door like a zombie returning to its grave. Twelve years of corporate law had hollowed him out, leaving only a shell that ate dinner and slept beside her.

Elena watched him from the counter, nursing her third glass of wine. They'd stopped swimming in each other's waters years ago. Now they just waded in the shallow end, careful not to splash.

"How was your day?" she asked, though the question had become a sphinx's riddle—impossible to answer honestly, dangerous to answer at all.

"Fine."

He didn't look at her. He never looked at her anymore. Not really.

The ceramic sphinx statuette on the windowsill caught the last light, its painted smile mocking them both. Elena had bought it in Egypt during their second anniversary, back when they still believed in mysteries worth solving together. Now it was just another thing gathering dust.

"David."

He froze with his hand on the refrigerator door. Finally, he turned.

"What?"

"When did you stop loving me?"

The question hung between them, orange and terrible. The sphinx said nothing.

David's jaw worked. His eyes, dead seconds ago, suddenly filled with something like panic. Or maybe it was relief.

"I didn't," he whispered. "I just... I forgot how to be anything else."

Elena set down her glass. The liquid inside was the color of that long-ago sunset in Cairo, when they'd stood before the real Sphinx and promised each other everything.

"Then let's remember," she said. "Or let's stop pretending there's still a riddle to solve."

David's shoulders dropped another inch, but this time, the zombie in him seemed to wake up.