What the Sphinx Won't Say

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled like a bruise. Elena had bought it three days ago because Marcus loved papaya—loved the way it smelled like summer, like the markets in Oaxaca where they'd met. Now the fruit rotted alongside their marriage.

Her friend Rachel kept texting. *You need to eat.* *Come over.* Elena stared at the phone screen, at Marcus's name still saved with a heart emoji that felt like a taunt.

Their dog, Buster, nudged her hand with his wet nose. He'd been sleeping in Marcus's spot on the bed, as if his fourteen-pound body could fill the empty space where a man used to breathe. Poor bastard didn't understand abandonment. He just wanted dinner.

"You're going to bear witness to my breakdown," Elena told him, slicing into the papaya. The flesh inside was shockingly orange, like something alive. She ate a piece standing over the sink, juice dripping down her chin, thinking about how Rachel had warned her. *He's never going to change.*

But people don't change, she realized now. They only reveal what was always there, like a statue under a sheet. Marcus had always been selfish. She'd just been too lonely to see it clearly.

That's the thing about loss—it makes you into your own sphinx, riddle-less and asking questions no one can answer. *Why wasn't I enough? When did he stop loving me? Was any of it real?*

Buster whined, pacing toward his bowl. Elena set down the papaya, wiped her sticky hands on a paper towel. Some questions you don't answer. Some grief you just feed, one meal at a time, until the day arrives when it doesn't claw at your throat quite so badly.

She texted Rachel back: *Come over. Bring wine.*

The papaya could wait. The grief could wait. For now, there was a dog who needed her, and a friend who wouldn't let her fall apart alone.