Like most week mornings, I visited my favorite greasy spoon joint. Except for one fairly old man, the greasy spoon was empty, but it seemed weird because I knew I had heard at least one voice as I entered the greasy joint. As I made my way to my favorite booth, I looked around to see if anybody else was there; nope, nobody else was there. I looked at the old fella and saw that he was having a loud and heavy conversation with his imaginary friend or friends. He kept asking his friend or friends to talk to him. “Talk to me,” he kept saying. Every now and then, in between words, he would loudly snap his fingers. I was tempted to ask him if he was talking to my imaginary friends, Beto and Chuy, but that would have been mean of me. I finished my breakfast, and the old guy was still conversing and snapping his fingers.
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