The Unanswered Riddle

The corporate retreat had been Marcus's idea. Twelve years of marriage, and he'd chosen to end it beside a resort pool in Scottsdale, surrounded by synthetic palm trees and colleagues who pretended not to notice the silence between us.

I sat on the edge of the pool at midnight, my legs submerged in water that felt too warm, too artificial. Above me, a concrete sphinx guarded the hot tub entrance—kitschy Egyptian decor that Marcus had found charming. Its painted eyes watched me with that ancient, knowing gaze. Riddles within riddles. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer was supposed to be man, but Marcus had never made it to three-legged old age. He'd left at noon, chasing someone younger, someone who didn't ask questions.

In the decorative pond nearby, three goldfish glided through murky water—orange and white flashes in the darkness. I'd fed them yesterday from the complimentary fish food, watching them rise to the surface with open mouths, hungry and trusting. They'd eat anything. They'd forgotten yesterday's feeder by today.

"You're thinking too hard again," Marcus had said last night, when I asked if he was happy. He'd turned away, leaving my question hanging like the sphinx's unspoken riddle. Some questions destroy the illusion. Some answers, once spoken, can never be unheard.

The goldfish surfaced, breaking the water's tension. I stood up, dripping wet, and walked back to our room—my room now. The sphinx's painted smile seemed almost cruel in the moonlight. It knew what I was just learning: that the riddle wasn't about him, or her, or us. The riddle was what I would become when I finally stopped waiting for answers that weren't coming.

I packed my bag. The flight home departed at dawn.