The Sphinx of August

The pool water was still at 3 AM, the surface like black glass until I broke it with my body. Swimming had always been my way of thinking—especially about Thomas.

He'd been a sphinx of a man, all composed silence and knowing eyes. At office dinners, he'd lean against the wall while colleagues postured and bragged, that small smile playing on his lips like he could see through every performance. When I finally asked him what he was thinking, those months into our affair, he'd only traced the line of my jaw and said, "Some riddles answer themselves."

The water wrapped around me, cool and demanding. I'd loved that about him—the mystery, the sense that he knew something I didn't. But then the mystery had curdled into distance. His silences felt like withholding. His knowing smile like condescension.

I stopped swimming, treading water in the center of the pool. Above, the moon cut through clouds like something being revealed.

Thomas had left without explanation three months ago. No fight, no breakup conversation—just a note on my kitchen table: "You're better at answers than I am."

I lowered my face into the water, held my breath until my chest burned. When I surfaced, gasping, I finally understood: some sphinxes don't have riddles to solve. Some are just creatures watching you solve yourself.