What the Sphinx Knows

The fox appeared at dusk, just as Maya was pouring her third glass of wine. She watched it through the sliding glass door—lean, rust-colored, moving with that peculiar mixture of wariness and purpose that wild animals have. It paused near the palm tree, its coat catching the last light, then vanished into the shadows of the golf course.

"Did you see that?" she asked Daniel.

He didn't look up from his phone. "What?"

"A fox. Right by the palm tree."

"Huh." A non-response.

They were in Palm Springs for the weekend—supposedly to reconnect, though Daniel had spent most of it answering emails. The rental house was pristine, expensive, empty. Like their marriage lately. Maya traced the rim of her wine glass and thought about riddles.

The sphinx had asked Oedipus: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening? The answer was man. But the better question was: what does a marriage walk on? When they'd met at twenty-five, they'd been on four legs—ungainly, eager, falling over themselves in love. Now, at forty-five, they were on two. Stagnant. And Maya feared she knew what came next.

"I'm going to sleep," she said.

"Wait." Daniel finally set down his phone. "Maya, wait. We need to talk."

"Do we?" The fox's face flashed in her memory—those eyes that had seen everything and nothing, ancient and indifferent. "Or do we just need to stop pretending there's anything left to say?"

"I filed for divorce last week," Daniel said quietly.

The sphinx's riddle solved itself. Three legs in the evening—a cane, or perhaps the weight of truth.

"Okay," Maya said. Her voice didn't shake. Outside, beyond the palm tree's silhouette, the fox cried out—a sharp, almost human sound. Something between a question and an answer.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said.

"Don't be." Maya finished her wine. "At least now we know."