the tasting table asked for a second small slice, and Mark nearly announced that as an official award. Lucy nudged him with her elbow. They ate the last piece sitting on the hall steps while volunteers packed the tables.
On the drive home, Mark asked whether she wanted to try again next year. Lucy said yes, then asked whether they had to wait that long to bake something. He thought about his calendar and the way he filled it with tasks that offered an obvious definition of done.
The following Saturday, he bought ingredients for biscuits and sent her a message: “No competition. Just breakfast.” When she arrived, the rolling pin was already on the counter. So was the slightly crooked contest card, held to the refrigerator by a magnet. He had kept the right souvenir.
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