What the Sphinx Knows

The storm broke over Vegas just as Julian's flight status flickered from ON TIME to CANCELLED. Elena stood in their pyramid-themed suite, her palm pressed against the cold glass watching lightning split the neon sky.

Outside, the plastic sphinx guarding the hotel entrance glowed orange in the intermittent light. A year ago, this had seemed romantic—Vegas, the kitsch, the reckless impulse to marry after knowing each other three months. Now the sphinx's enigmatic smile felt less like mystery and more like judgment.

"Your mother warned you," her sister had said six months ago, when Elena first confessed the doubts she'd been swallowing like bitter pills. "Some riddles don't have answers."

She turned from the window. The room service cart held a half-eaten breakfast, an orange whose segments she'd separated but couldn't bring herself to consume. Everything about this trip—this marriage—felt like performing actions she'd seen others perform, without understanding their underlying purpose.

The phone rang. Julian's name lit up the screen.

"The airport's a mess," he said. "Looks like I'm stuck until morning."

"I know," she said, and then the words just came. "I'm not coming back."

Silence. Thunder rattled the glass.

"What?"

"I'm not coming back to Chicago. I'm not coming back to the apartment, or the job I took because you said it made sense, or the version of myself I've been pretending to be."

"Elena, you're upset. This storm is messing with your head—"

"No." She looked at her own palm again, the lifeline creasing her skin, and realized she'd been waiting for permission to stop disappearing. "The storm just made it safe to say what I've known since January."

The sphinx outside flashed again as lightning struck somewhere nearby, illuminating its stupid, knowing smile. Some riddles don't have answers—but sometimes, she realized, the riddle itself is the wrong question to ask.

"I'll leave your things at the front desk," she said, and hung up.