The Sphinx in the Lobby

Marcus adjusted the brim of his hat, the fedora feeling foreign after three months of chemotherapy. The elevator ride to the forty-second floor gave him too much time to remember—that day in January when the sphinx had asked her riddle.

She'd stood by the espresso machine in the break room, her palm resting on the counter as she asked the question that would cost him everything. "If you could save one account or your marriage, which would you choose?"

He'd laughed. Nervous, performative. He'd thought she was flirting.

"The Reynolds account, obviously," he'd said, already imagining the bonus. "Sarah understands what's at stake."

The sphinx—Elena, his colleague of fifteen years—had simply nodded. "Your wife asked me the same question yesterday. She said you'd choose the account."

She'd told him the truth in riddles. Some sphinxes didn't wait for answers. They already knew.

Now his office felt smaller without his furniture. Sarah had taken everything but the desk and his hat rack. His oncologist had given him six months, maybe twelve. The Reynolds account had gone to competitors after his diagnosis.

He stood before the sphinx statue in the lobby—a ridiculous piece of corporate art that nobody had ever understood. She'd loved it. She'd said the company needed its secrets, its guardians of impossible questions.

He ran a hand over his bare scalp. Hair had been the first thing to go, then his marriage, then his career. Soon it would be the rest of him.

The sphinx stared impassively ahead, wings folded, stone lips sealed forever.

"I would have chosen differently," he whispered to her. "If I'd known it was a real question."

A security guard approached. "Sir, are you alright?"

Marcus tipped his hat. He'd left his building access card upstairs. He'd left his career. He was going to call Sarah. Maybe it wasn't too late for a different answer.

The sphinx said nothing. Some riddles answer themselves, eventually.