I was under the impression that the universe and I had an understanding: don't bug me when I'm eating alone unless you know me. Seems logical, right? Today, this social contract was broken by a bespectacled tablewipe with a penchant for gab. I was sitting at a table, just reading a newspaper and eating my waffle fries, when the cleaning guy came to wipe down the table next to me. He asked me if the newspapers on this table were mine, and I said no. He took them and I went back to reading and eating. Then he came back to clean the table, and told me that somebody else would get the one I was sitting at. Most people would see this as the end of social pleasantries, but not this guy. He wanted to interrupt my daily reading of the op-ed page with his feelings about the chemical makeup of the table cleaning fluid. He told me that the bottle said it would irritate the skin and eyes, but that he had gotten it in his eyes a few times and it didn't hurt. I nodded politely, recalling the scene in the Mos Eisley cantina where Greedo confronts Han, and realizing that I was outgunned by a spray bottle filled with what he hypothesized was salt water. I was cornered, prone, and I still had half a sandwich to go before I could leave. He kept insisting that the chemical wasn't harmful, but I didn't want to find out. He left eventually, after talking my ear off.