Championship Pressure

I won at Scrabble. Properly. By nineteen points. I want those facts established before any discussion of what happened afterwards, because success of this kind should not be left vulnerable to interpretation. The East China Sea carried on outside with its usual indifference, but at our table an important correction had been made to the recent pattern of events.

There is a particular pleasure in winning by enough points to make the result look intentional. Nineteen seemed a healthy margin, large enough to support dignity but not so large that I would be required to explain a sudden transformation in ability. I tried to remain composed. This was difficult, as most of my face appeared eager to issue a statement.

Priya checked the score twice and requested that the board remain undisturbed pending review. Her tone was stern, though not quite severe enough to disguise the warmth beneath it. I respected the request. A legitimate victory ought to withstand scrutiny, and I was prepared to sit there looking modest for as long as the process reasonably required. Modesty was proving surprisingly tiring.

Container then walked across the board and scattered half the tiles. It was a beautifully decisive intervention, indifferent to procedure and devastating to any further reconstruction of play. I have never been more certain that the cat is my friend. Priya could still inspect the score, but the physical evidence had acquired a distinctly feline arrangement. I did not celebrate the disruption. I merely felt a profound private gratitude for the timing.