It was very much a moment of personal crisis for nondescript bookkeeper Martin Locke, when he found himself extremely titillated by an extremely unpleasant event which befell one of his co-workers. He liked this particular co-worker a great deal and, though quiet, he often found himself deep in conversation with her when they met by chance in the corporate kitchen.

She was an attractive woman, maybe a year or two past Locke’s even-forty, by the name of Violet. She worked in the company’s graphics department, sporting the sort of hip glasses and deliberately messy hair that was, to Locke, both appealing and a complete anathema. She was heavier-set and quite curvy in all quarters–a quality which, fashion magazines be damned, had never bothered Locke in the slightest. She was happily married with a pair of very lovely little daughters and he’d never thought of her romantically, doing his best not to notice when she occasionally and accidentally gave glimpses of her more-than-sufficient cleavage while reaching for the coffee stirrers.