“My dear friend, the amount of cells you have left in your brain doth equate to zero.”

Julian scoffed. “You call that Shakespearean? Homeboy was more, ‘thou art a foul, purple-appendixed peahen’.”

“‘Appendixed’ isn’t a word!”

“Shakespeare made up words!”

“Touché,” I replied, picking up my sword (fake, don’t freak out) from the table. “Can I try again?”

Marjorie shook her head, which made her glasses slide down her nose.

“You took your shot, my guy,” she announced firmly. “It’s my turn.”

I handed Marjorie the prop and whined, “Fiiiine.”

Marjorie lined up in front of Julian, who greeted her with a sly smirk.

“You can’t defeat me,” he said pompously.

“I bet I can,” Marjorie growled back, “You think-feathered rooster of a man.”

There was a moment of silence as we processed Marjorie’s insult, but then we all burst into laughter and we know the exercise had worked.