What the Sphinx Knows

The **pool** was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Marian chose this hour. She sat on the edge, legs dangling in the chlorinated **water**, nursing a glass of cheap merlot that had gone warm. Thirty-seven years old, divorcing, and sleeping on her sister's couch—life had a way of delivering punchlines she never saw coming.

A bark cut through the silence. A golden retriever appeared from the darkness, tail wagging, followed by a man in hotel slippers. The dog approached Marian with the confidence of creatures who assume the world will pet them.

"Sorry," the man said. "That's Buster. He makes friends everywhere."

Marian scratched Buster's ears. "No problem. I was just... thinking."

"About?"

"About how my sister's condo complex has a stone **sphinx** by the front gate, and it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen. Egyptian mythology guarding a bunch of mid-life crises in three-bedroom units."

The man sat beside her, careful not to splash. He had nice hands, Marian noticed. A professional's hands, probably did something precise for a living. "I'm Mark, by the way."

"Marian."

"I'm in room 3B," Mark said. "Divorce final next week."

"Divorce final next month," she countered. They clinked glasses—she'd refilled while he'd sat down. His wine was still cold from his own minibar run.

They sat there an hour while Buster curled between them like a furry bridge. The conversation meandered through careers they'd chosen, roads not taken, the particular ache of realizing your thirties were gone and you'd become someone you hadn't planned to be.

"You know what the sphinx riddle was?" Marian asked, head swimming pleasantly now. "'What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening?' We're at noon, Mark. This is it. This is the two-legged part, and it's harder than anyone told us."

Mark's hand found hers in the dark. His palm was warm, his grip tentative. "Maybe the three-legged part isn't so bad. Maybe you lean on people."

Buster sighed, a dramatic exhale that made them both laugh. Marian looked at Mark—at the lines around his eyes, at the way his shoulders had dropped three inches since he sat down.

"Room 3B?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Buster can have the couch."

The sphinx kept its secrets, but somewhere, Marian thought, someone was getting the answer right.