What the Sphinx Knows

The spinach lay limp on her plate, cooked into submission by forty minutes of hesitant conversation. Elena, fifty-three and wearing her exhaustion like an expensive scarf, finally took a bite.

"You're not happy, are you?" she said.

Robert watched their dog, a golden retriever named Bear, sleeping under the restaurant table. The animal had been his wedding gift to her twelve years ago, back when they still believed love could solve anything. Now Bear was ancient, his muzzle white, his joints stiff, and so was their marriage.

"I'm not unhappy," he said. "I'm just... existing."

"That's worse." She signaled the waiter for another glass of wine. "At least if you're miserable, you're feeling something."

The truth was, Robert had stopped feeling anything years ago. The corporate mergers he managed, the promotions he chased, the promotions he got—they all blurred together. He'd become like the sphinx he'd seen in Egypt years ago: stone-faced, impossible to read, silently asking questions he couldn't answer himself. Who am I? What am I doing here? Why can't I feel anything?

"I talked to David today," Elena said, naming the man she'd been seeing for six months. Robert knew about David. They'd agreed openness might save them.

"And?"

"And he asked me to move in with him."

The spinach congealed on Robert's plate. "What did you say?"

"I said I needed to talk to you first." She reached across the table, her hand finding his. "We promised we'd make these decisions together. Remember?"

He did remember. They'd promised they wouldn't become those couples who lived separate lives in the same house, who stayed together out of habit or fear or convenience. But they had become exactly that, hadn't they?

"Bear can't live alone," Robert said, surprising himself with tears. "He needs us. Both of us."

"Bear is fourteen years old," Elena said gently. "He won't be with us much longer, honey."

"I know." Robert squeezed her hand. "I think that's why I'm so scared. If we go, what happens to the parts of us that only exist when we're together?"

Elena was quiet for a long time. The sphinx inside Robert kept asking its questions, but for once, he thought he might have an answer.

"Maybe," she said, "those parts don't disappear. Maybe they're just waiting for us to remember them."

They paid the bill. They walked home with Bear slowly, carefully. They held hands, and for the first time in years, Robert didn't feel like stone.