Janitor: May I? I'm not really at the talking part of relationships, but I've given this a little thought. And, huh... And here goes. If I were a catfish... See, that's no good. Catfish is no good. Let's pretend we were in Africa. And you're a monkey trying to steal my gold.
Lady: I'm a germaphobe!
Janitor: What?
Lady: The reason I don't want to hold hands is that I am a germaphobe. Specifically, a hand-specific germaphobe. My therapist thinks that part of the reason I'm attracted to you is that you clean germs for a living. And you're a dead ringer for my dad. Whatever, anyway. Look, I've never told anyone this before. And I just finally feel so comfortable with you that I want to be the real me. You know?
Janitor: I do. You're weird.
Lady: Yeah.
Janitor: love that.
Lady: Really?
Janitor: Yes. Hey, don't touch the table. It's full of bacteria.
Lady: Oh, thanks.