It's the deadest part of a dead evening, and I'm hungry. I've written about a cool Subway employee before; tonight's is a weathered woman with heavy black hair. I'm often uncomfortable merely waiting while someone works to serve me. Thus begins innocuous chat.

"My friend works here, too," I say. "She's always got a good story about six people arriving right before closing, or some other minor catastrophe. You know how it is." Pleasant smile, cheerful voice, including her if she wishes to engage, letting my eyes wander, thus demanding no attention from her if she doesn't wish to engage (she's working, after all). It's a social instinct.

Unfortunately, I don't think Cylons have instincts. "Your friend has a terrible attitude. A group coming in right before closing should be served like anyone else." Delivered in the dulcet tones of a drill instructor.

"Umm, she wasn't complaining," I respond. "We were just chatting about our respective jobs, you know?"

Here's where a person might ask about cab driving. Whereas the Cylon lights into my friend's attitude again. I politely suggest her own might need work, considering that her vehement expression of it apparently precluded any sandwich-making activity whatsoever. Though I'm already turning to leave, she orders me out. I weigh the entertainment value of what she might do if I stay, but Quiznos has better bread, and I'm still hungry.