On a 7-9, Mona will do it if you turn her on.

"Or if it's too busy for you to get a break, you could just give me a peek in the boathouse." you tell Mona.

Mona looks a little pink in her cheeks and ears. She laughs. "Joe," she says, looking flattered.

"I'm coming around to the advice I just got," you say. "Slow it down a little and do a better job taking turns."

"Oh, is that what Cindy told you?" Mona asks. She wipes down the bar again and collects the tips from the textured rubber bar mat.

"She told me to quit forgetting stuff that wasn't just about me, and quit talking myself up so much," you say. "Kinda a bucket of cold water, and not the championship dip."

Mona laughs. "Actions speak louder than words sometimes," she says.

"Mona, trash run," the shift manager tells her. "José couldn't make it and Ben is on tables."

"Got it!" Mona says.

"Give you a hand?" You turn up your palm.

Mona waits for the manager to go round the corner.

She lays her palm on yours. "In a hot second," she says. "I hate trash run."

While Mona's cuteness and sociability make her a fine bartender, you figure an ideal trash runner would have longer arms and more upper body strength.

Halfway through, you're not super pleased about the job yourself. Awkwardly toting heavy, over-filled trash bags and getting smeared with nacho grease is not the most wonderful thing, but at least as part of a team, Mona is opening all the doors for you. You do your best to hide your grimace as Karen's bruise starts giving you another pain work-out. Using both arms to move heavy things you're carrying against your chest isn't the worst-case scenario, but it really does hurt. By the time you make it to the big trash container, you're sweating and panting.

Mona opens the lid. You heave the bags in and stagger, catching yourself against the metal side.

"God, are you okay, Joe?" Mona says. "What happened?"

"Ow. I'll be okay," you say. "Forgot. Strained my chest at work today." The pain eases and you straighten up. "See? Better already."

Mona shakes her head. "You should take better care of yourself," she says.

"So, you think you'll get a break in your shift?" you ask.

Mona laughs. "Maybe," she says. "I'm a little ahead. You want to sweep again?"

"Sure," you say. You reach out and take her hand as you walk back from the trash container. She gives you a squeeze. Before she can drop your hand, you walk by the shift manager.

"New boyfriend, Mona?" she asks. "Pretty cute." The manager is a thirty-something pixie with a side-buzz haircut. You'd peg her for a lesbo, but maybe she's a sucker for any kind of romance.

"No, Rowan," Mona says, dropping your hand.

The manager gives you a sidelong glance. "Coulda fooled me," she says. "Anyway, customers."

"Customers," Mona says.

Things never let up, so you end up sweeping and doing table caddies while Mona works the bar. The shift manager keeps looking at you like she's checking you out, too. She's got the eyes. Little laser beams that keep zapping you from one angle or another. While Mona pulls beers, collects glasses and gathers tips, it's actually Rowan that makes sure you've got a free coke or a basket of chips to tide you over while you do the little stuff to help out. But you keep glancing at Mona, giving her a smile and a nod. She starts smiling back, and catching your eye when she's between customers. The next trash run, she wrangles the bags while you open doors and lids for her.

"Thanks, Joe," she says.

"You're welcome," you say. "It's kinda fun."

"Clock out, Mona," Rowan says. "Good shift." She rests a familiar hand on the back of Mona's slacks.

"Thanks, Rowan," Mona says.

"Can you come by Saturday?" Rowan asks. "Like before?"

"Sure," Mona says.

"See you then," Rowan says. She slips some folded money into Mona's back pocket and pats her butt. "Have fun, kid."

"Meet you outside, Joe," Mona says.

You wait by the entrance of El Gringo Loco, watching the evening customers come and go. Pretty happy crowd, you'd say.

Mona comes out, changed back into street clothes from her uniform, but with her brown hair still up in a ponytail.

"You doing extra work for your manager?" you ask.

Mona laughs. "Yeah. I'm sound engineer for her band until her regular one gets back."

"Her band?"

"Yeah," Mona says. "Bleeding Gardenias. Queer punk, mostly, some ballads, a little surf guitar."

"That sounds damn cool," you say. "I didn't know you did sound stuff."

Mona laughs. "I started last summer. It was supposed to be for my band, but..." She shrugs her shoulders. "Drama. I dunno."

"You gonna start another band?" you ask.

"Maybe," Mona says.

"Mona and the Canoe Drivers?" you joke.

Mona laughs and pushes on your shoulder. "Oh, stop, Joe!" She shakes her head.

"No, really, you with three guys in shorts and orange life jackets," you say. "Can I be the drummer?"

Mona laughs long and hard, until the tears start coming from her eyes. "Drummer? With your sense of timing?" she says. "Hell, sure. We can be a comedy group."

"I'll have to see the canoe first," you say.

"Let's walk," she says.

You and Mona walk along the starlit beach.

"It's a beautiful night," you say. The breeze off the ocean is mild and gentle, though there's still warmth in the sand.

You reach out your hand. Mona takes it, and this time she doesn't drop it. You walk together until you're concealed from sight by a boulder fallen from the crumbling bluff.

"Okay, Joe," Mona says.

It's dim, but there's enough city light reflected from the sky so you won't miss anything.

Mona unbuttons her shorts and shimmies them down. Beneath her fuzzy dark bush, a classic triangle, is a simply beautiful line, a single fold.

"There's the boat, Joe," she says.

"You in the mood for a boat ride, tonight?" you ask.

You look in each other's eyes. Your breaths deepen and fall in time together.