The Sphinx of Cubicle 4B
Maya sat in cubicle 4B, the corporate sphinx of the twentieth floor, her riddles taking the form of impossible deadlines and passive-aggressive emails. At 47, after two divorces and a career that had plateaued into a comfortable numbness, she'd mastered the art of looking busy while contemplating the void.
The orangeé“186 LED on her phone blinked—a message from David, the new senior director whose office was in the pyramid-shaped building across the street. They'd been having an affair for three months, furtive encounters in supply closets and hotel rooms during lunch breaks. It was pathetic, really, the kind of desperate grasping at feeling that midlife crises were made of.
"Come over. Need you." Simple. Demanding. The way he always was.
Maya's phone buzzed again. This time a photo from her ex-husband: their old golden retriever, Barnaby, now gray-muzzled and arthritic, sleeping on what used to be their couch. The dog had been Marcus's idea, something to save their marriage in its final year. Now Barnaby was dying, and Marcus wanted her to come say goodbye.
She stood at her window, staring at the glass pyramid across the street where David waited, unknowing, in his corner office. Behind her, her computer screen displayed the quarterly projection she'd been pretending to work on for three hours—a pyramid of numbers that meant nothing in either direction.
Maya thought about riddles and answers. The sphinx had asked Oedipus what walked on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening. The answer was man. But the real question was what happened when evening stretched on for decades, when the cane felt less like support and more like obligation.
The orange sunset hit her window just so, catching the dust motes floating in the air like tiny suspended moments of decision. David wanted her body. Marcus wanted her grief. Neither wanted her.
Maya sat back down and deleted David's message. Then she booked a flight home. Some riddles you solve by walking away.