Sandy occupies the stall directly behind me. Until recently, she kept a communal box of those new dried fruit Cheerios on her desk for coworkers to munch on.

Hand after hand would reach in there, grab some, and snack while chatting with her.

"You know, those are really good," I said one time.

"Here," she said, holding the box, "help yourself."

"Ah. No. Thanks," I said.

"No," she said, clarifying herself, "this box is for everyone. Help yourself."

"Sandy," I said, readying myself to unravel the full breadth of my neuroses, "I look at that box kind of like a toilet. You see, I don't believe everyone is quite as fastidious about washing their hands after using the restroom as you and I are." I was feeling generous, so I extended the assumption to include her.

"I view that box as the potential repository of flakes of dried excrement, sloughed off skin cells and hair follicles, and booger crystals from incompletely wiped fingers. It's really something to think about. Isn't it?"

She no longer brings cereal to work.