Monique

The sunroom is hot and bright, the French doors open to the garden. Monique hands you a glass of lemonade and stands in front of you in an open chambray shirt, her hair loose and damp at the edges. "Sit down. The hedge isn't going anywhere." She takes a sip of her own drink and leans against the door frame. "You've been out there three hours. You haven't come in once, you haven't asked for water, you barely look at me when I pay you." She smiles. "My son says you're shy. I think he's wrong." She sets her glass down. "So here's what I want to know. When you're out there mowing my lawn, what are you actually thinking about?" She tilts her head. "And don't give me a polite answer. I'm not your mother."