Thunder Over the Sphinx

The **dog** had been following her for three blocks. A mangy terrier mix with one ear that stood at attention while the other flopped lazily against its scarred skull. Sarah kept walking, heels clicking against the damp pavement, refusing to acknowledge the animal that had decided she was its person today.

"You're going to catch pneumonia," Richard had said that morning, his voice tight with that particular brand of concern that masked disappointment. He'd stopped really seeing her months ago—stopped seeing anything beyond his own reflection in her eyes.

Now she sat on a bench in the park, nursing a lukewarm coffee. The sky bruised purple above her. The **water** in the fountain nearby churned, rhythmic and hypnotic, catching what little light remained in the heavy afternoon.

A riddle. That's what Richard called their marriage when he finally said it aloud two weeks ago. We're like the **sphinx**, he'd told her. Ancient, weathered, posing questions we've forgotten the answers to.

She'd wanted to scream: I remember all the answers. I remember everything.

The dog settled at her feet, chin resting on her shoe. Sarah looked down. Its eyes were ancient, knowing.

"You too, huh?" she whispered.

**Lightning** fractured the sky—a sudden, violent opening that left her breathless. One second, then thunder shook the bench beneath her. Rain began to fall, slow at first, then relentless.

She didn't move. The dog didn't either.

And there it was—the clarity she'd been seeking through bottles of wine and sleepless nights and conversations that circled the same exhausted territory. Some things weathered. Some things didn't. She could stand here forever, waiting for Richard to remember who she was, or she could walk into the storm and let something new begin.

Sarah stood. The dog rose with her.

"Come on then," she said, and they walked together into the rain.