What the Sphinx Knows

Elena stood before the glass case, the limestone sphinx staring back with its enigmatic, damaged face. Behind her, Marcus was already making his way to the next exhibit, his graying hair catching in the museum's harsh fluorescent light.

Three hours earlier, at the gallery opening, she'd felt the piece of spinach lodged between her teeth for twenty minutes—twenty entire minutes—before Marcus had finally leaned in and whispered, "You've got something there." He hadn't said it with concern. He'd said it with that particular brand of detached amusement that had come to define their marriage over the past seventeen years.

The sphinx had riddles. Elena had questions.

"I'm going to step outside for some air," she called to Marcus's retreating back. He waved without turning.

Outside, rain was falling in sheets, water pooling on the pavement, reflecting the city lights in fractured distortions. She watched her own reflection ripple and break apart.

A woman walked past with a massive fur coat—a vintage bear skin, complete with head—draped over her shoulders. The bear's glass eyes seemed to wink. Elena thought about taxidermy. About preserving something that used to be alive, keeping it around because you couldn't bear to let it go.

Marcus joined her at the curb, hailing a cab. "Ready?"

Elena looked at the rain, at the bear woman disappearing into the gallery, at the sphinx still watching from inside its glass box.

"No," she said. "Actually, I think I'll walk."

"In this? It's pouring."

"I know."

"You're being dramatic," he said, but not with his usual detachment. Something flickered behind his eyes—fear, maybe. Or recognition.

"Maybe," Elena said, stepping out into the rain. "But at least I'll be able to feel it."

The sphinx, she knew, had asked its riddles to anyone who passed. Some questions were meant to remain unanswered. Some truths were better spoken aloud.