"Sure, it's just a quiz to determine if you align more with Marcus Aurelius or a toaster," she twinkled.
"I shall choose the toaster, at least it never whines when I forget its birthday," he replied, the cardboard hat swaying atop his head.
A mug of steam wafted above their heads, whispering secrets of the cosmos with thick foamed deliberation.
Time kept slipping like an unshackled eel as they expounded on the merits of pickling in medieval times versus napping under ancient oak trees.
"You've misunderstood the Stradivarius," she said. "It's not a violin, it's a metaphor for sweet potato fries!"