I have the distinction of sitting next to an exquisitely tidy coworker. The surface of her desk gleams like the skin of an apple (or the inside of an Apple store); a single dictionary, its binding kissing the leftmost edge of a tissue box, keeps watch over an immaculately polished laptop. Occasionally a book will materialize somewhere between the telephone and the cheerful plant in its bright green ceramic. The edges of this idyllic work zone are marked by a translucent partition, a kind of Great Wall beyond which the barbarian forces (me) gather.