What the Sphinx Knows

The sphinx on the bookshelf watches me slice papaya, its stone eyes flickering with afternoon light. We brought it back from Cairo—our last trip before everything started unraveling. Now it's just me in this kitchen, preparing dinner I won't eat.

My iPhone lies face down on the counter, dark and silent. For three days, that's all it's been. No messages. No calls. Just the persistent phantom vibration that makes me reach for nothing.

The spinach wilts in the pan, turning from vibrant green to something softer, more surrendered. Like us, I think, then correct myself: like me. David surrendered weeks ago; I'm just now noticing the limp.

We met at a dinner party—him freshly divorced, me recovering from a project that consumed three years of my life. We were both experts at convincing ourselves we were fine. That first night, he made me laugh so hard my ribs ached. The papaya and spinach salad I'd brought grew warm while we talked.

That was two years ago.

The riddle, of course, was never about us. It was about the sphinx on the shelf, about all the artifacts we collect to prove we existed somewhere, sometime, with someone. David's departure wasn't dramatic. He just... stopped showing up. Emotionally first, then physically. His clothes are still in the closet. His toothbrush, a papaya-colored electric thing he was proud of, still charges by the sink.

My phone screen lights up—a work notification. I ignore it. Some messages don't need answering.

The spinach is done. I slide it onto a plate, arrange the papaya beside it. The sphinx seems almost smug. It knows something I've been too afraid to admit: some riddles don't have answers. Some things just *are*.

Like this dinner I've made for one. Like the space where someone else used to be.

I pick up my phone and type out a message to David: "I'm donating your things. Come get the sphinx if you want it."

Then I delete his contact. Eat my dinner alone. The spinach is overcooked, the papaya too sweet. It's perfect.