“I know you’re there. “

“No, you don’t.”

“I see your feet. I know you’re there.”

“You see nothing.”

“You’re salivating! I’m going to drown in all the drool.”

“Preposterous. You will do no such thing, as I am not ‘salivating.’ It’s a glandular problem, you know that.”

“I do know. Would you like a tissue? A sock, perhaps?”

“Ahh, yes, what a grand idea. Just dangle your leg over the side, I’ll pull the sock from your foot.”

“…Wait a hot second, you’re trying to trick me! I won’t fall for it, though, I’m too smart for you. I eat my Wheaties.”

“Trick you into what? Helping out a friend, like you offered to do?”

“And now you’re guilt-tripping me. I have half a mind to come down there and drool all over you, see how much you like it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t fit down here, anyway. I barely do as it is.”

“Ah hah! So you admit to being there!”

“Shh. Just help an imaginary monster fellow with a glandular problem out, dangle one of those meaty, delicious, sumptuous little feet of yours over the end and lend your buddy a sock.”

“Meaty little what?”

“Shhhhh. Go to sleep.”