The Sphinx's Last Question

The dog barreled onto the padel court at 6 AM, wet fur glistening in the floodlights, a beast unleashed from wherever Eduardo kept him during matches. My husband stood frozen, racket dangling from his grip like a forgotten weapon.

"He ate the spinach again," Eduardo said, not sorry. "Rogue likes it."

I watched my husband watch the dog—something broken behind his eyes, something that had been broken for three years. We were all zombies now, really. Me, haunting our marriage like a ghost in my own life. Eduardo, playing padel at dawn because insomnia was cheaper than therapy. The dog, eating vegetables meant for humans.

The sphinx statue in the courtyard had been losing chunks of limestone since I'd bought it at that estate sale. I'd thought it would bring mystery to our garden. Instead, it crumbled in the rain, eroding like whatever we'd once promised each other.

"Your turn," Eduardo said.

I served. The ball hit the mesh fence with a dull thud.

My husband didn't move to return it. He just watched the sphinx, or what was left of it—weathered stone with the inscrutable patience of something that had survived centuries, only to decay in my backyard.

"Do you remember," he said, not to me, but to the dawn, "when we thought love was a riddle we could solve?"

The dog barked, sharp and demanding. Eduardo laughed. The sun was rising behind the clubhouse, turning everything gold and improbable.

"Riddles don't have answers," I said. "They just have more questions."

The sphinx seemed to smile at that, eroded mouth catching the first light. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the trick wasn't solving anything. Maybe the trick was playing the game anyway, even when you'd already lost.

I picked up the ball. My husband finally moved to receive. The dog settled in the grass, chewing something green and leafy he'd found near the flowerbeds.

Game point.