The Sphinx of Cancún

The **papaya** sat untouched on my room service tray, oxidizing in the humid air. Three days into what was supposed to be my honeymoon, and I hadn't left the suite. The jacuzzi tub filled with lukewarm **water** I kept forgetting to drain.

My **iPhone** lit up again—Marcus, for the eighth time today. I stared at his contact photo: that smug, knowing smile he'd given me when we booked this non-refundable trip. Six months later, I'd discovered the forwarding address for his mail, the secret credit card statements, the hotel receipts from "business trips" that coincided with every girls' night I'd planned.

I'd packed the **cable** to his external hard drive. My revenge. Every photo, every document, every project file—encrypted, backed up, and wiped. Let him explain to his clients why their intellectual property had vanished.

A knock on the door. Housekeeping. I let them in, then wandered down to the pool.

That's where I saw it: a concrete **sphinx** rising from the shallow end, its painted face already chipping in the salt air. Some architect's idea of exotic luxury. I waded over to it, the water cool against my thighs. The sphinx stared blankly at the tourists, its riddle unspoken.

What was it again? "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?" The answer was man—crawling as infant, standing as adult, leaning on a cane in old age.

But the real riddle was simpler: How long does it take to realize you've been leaning on the wrong person?

I touched the rough concrete snout. Somewhere in this resort, Marcus was probably at the bar, buying drinks for someone new with his charming lies and his wiped-clean hard drive waiting to destroy him.

I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and blocked his number. Then I ordered fresh papaya and champagne, charged to his room. The sphinx said nothing, but I swore it almost smiled.