What the Sphinx Wanted

The Sphinx asked the same riddle every morning at 7:15 AM.

I'd be halfway through my first coffee when David would lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes knowing. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?"

"Man," I'd say, pouring milk. "Crawls as baby, walks upright, uses cane in old age."

"Wrong."

Then he'd leave for work, leaving me with cold coffee and the goldfish bowl on the windowsill. The fish—stupid, orange, beautiful—would flare its gills at me, innocent as a heart attack.

Three months ago, I'd started running. First just around the block, then through the park, then along the river until my lungs burned and my vision blurred. Running was the only time I didn't think about the Sphinx's riddle or the goldfish or the way David watched me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

The morning after I found the text on his phone—*She understands. She finally answered correctly*—I laced up my shoes and ran until I threw up by the river. The goldfish was dead when I got home. David had already flushed it.

"You killed it," he said.

"I was at work."

"You stopped caring weeks ago."

I packed that night while he sat in the kitchen, preparing tomorrow morning's riddle.

"What's broken when you name it?" he called out.

I paused with my suitcase in the hall. "Silence."

He didn't answer. That's when I finally understood. The riddle wasn't the point. The answer didn't matter. The Sphinx just wanted someone to stay long enough to keep asking.

I left. I run most mornings now. Sometimes I still wake up at 7:15 AM, wondering what riddle he's asking the empty kitchen, wondering if he's found someone new to play his games, wondering if the answer was always just to walk away.

But that's a riddle for another Sphinx. This one's done asking.