Anne Campion. On a 7-9, you find her in public

As you're finishing your shift in the lifeguard chair, using the movements of the women in skintight or barely-there swimsuits to keep your attention sharp, you hear a familiar voice.

Anne Campion is your boss at the swimming pool and athletic complex. A tall English redhead somewhere in her thirties, one of your older co-workers said she looked like Emma Peel from The Avengers. She seems to be a gloomier version of her usual put-upon mood today. She's usually nice to you despite her habitual attitude of storm-round-and-carry-on. You notice she's fidgeting, twisting her finger and thumb around the base of a finger on her other hand. The space where she wears her wedding ring is bare, empty skin.

"Joe? When you're done, I could use your help. Someone has shifted the drinks machine and the electrical cord has pulled out."

You wrestle the drinks machine back into place and reconnect the cord. Someone was probably playing for a free drink and got nothing for their troubles. Or a sore back, you hope. As for you, you end up with an ache in your chest where Karen gave you a free kickboxing lesson. Ow.

You find Anne behind the front desk among the clerks and high-school volunteers that run it.

"All working again," you tell her.

"Well, at least that's one thing working in my life," she says. "Thanks Joe."

"Ms. Campion, you look a little sad today," you say. "Would you tell me about it?"