This is the 35th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
The best key lime pie is still up for debate. The judges have been in the supply closet—now a deliberation room—for 23 minutes, and we can still hear shouting. It’s between Mr. Wilfred and me, and I guess it’s a close race. I look at him, and he looks at me. He smiles that toothy smile that would be creepy on anyone else in the world, but somehow, on him, it’s endearing. He leans on his cane and just waits.
He’s won every year since 1986. I wasn’t even born then. These are points the judges imply but don’t say outright. When they emerge from the supply closet, they huddle together like penguins in a blizzard.
“Geraldine,” they say, in unison, looking at me.
“Mr. Wilfred,” they say, in unison, looking at him.
Their eyes slip to each other, then the door, and they book it. All three of them. I’ve never seen an 80-year-old sprint, but Mrs. Hansen keeps up with the other two no problem.
“So, uh,” I say to Mr. Wilfred without looking at him. “Want to split the prize money?”
Miles Away 