I

"Men suck," Margie remarked, draining a second glass of wine. Lunch sat cold and uneaten in front of her, as her best friend, Trina, stared longingly at the wasted food on the plate. For the past three-and-a-half months a salad and water were her usual lunch whenever she ate at the trendy, yet homey Greek restaurant and Fish Market that Catrina and Margie frequented. Located on the east side of midtown Manhattan at the same spot that it had occupied for the past 45 years, the restaurant was a longstanding hallmark of good food and comfortable atmosphere. It was a place people went to languish over a long lunch, absorbing the old-world style ambiance and always impeccable menu. Trina was one of those people who had to go where she could be seen; it was part of her life, part of her career choice.

Even the coagulating garlic-butter sauce looked appetizing, Trina thought. She stared despairingly at the small salad in front of her. Reluctantly she stabbed at the lettuce, tossed lightly with low-fat dressing and a hint of feta cheese, and began to nibble at her lunch.

Getting used to the plain salad was good for her. It built self-discipline; at least that's what she told herself. In addition to being low on calories, a salad and water were also relatively cheap by New York's prices. If it managed to snag a table for a good part of the day at a restaurant that was haunted by Broadway producers, she was willing to make her sacrifices. To find work as a dancer she had to keep her body lean and in tune � but she also had to be "seen."

"Eight months I put into that friggin' relationship. Eight months! And what do I get out of it?" Margie continued, exaggerating the "I", and interrupting her friend's self-pity. "Nothing but a pain in the ass and a ton of gray hair. Just look at it, Trina," The twenty-six-year-old leaned forward, melodramatically separating her sleek black hair at the crown, prodding at invisible gray hairs.

"Oh Margie, get real. You're imagining things. Like, your hair is totally gorgeous as always," Trina told her best friend. It was true. Margie never had a bad hair day in her life. Or a bad face day. Or a bad body day. Just bad men days. Margie just couldn't manage to maintain a semi-normal relationship with any man. Trina smoothed back her own blue-black bob, tucking one side of her hair, the side that faced the crowd, behind her ear.

"Do you know he just wanted me to give in to him all the time? He, like, thought I was just some dumb bimbo. Like, I have brains, you know. What an asshole. Do you know that he actually wanted me to give up my weekend in the Hamptons with Clarice and Joe just so I could be available to him for some lame party he had planned for his stockbroker buddies?" Margie quoted the word 'available' with her fingers, rolling her eyes. "Like, �hello?�, I said. Anybody home? I've only been doing this annual trip with my high school buddies for, like, the last five years. Duh."

"Wow. He wanted you to be, like, the hired help and all?" Trina asked, an eyebrow arched up in astonishment. She chewed her salad slowly. Trina wanted to drag out lunch, just so she could have a reason to occupy the far corner table by the front window. She really had no place else to go until late tonight and would just as soon sit in the restaurant and maybe be seen by a producer or two.

"Uh, yeah! He was all, 'you're selfish' and I was like, 'no way, you are'. It was totally ridiculous. I mean, if I wanted to play Betty Crocker I'd buy an apron and go to cooking school or something, you know?" Margie reached for the empty bottle of burgundy. "Order another bottle of wine, would you Trina? I'm in desperate need of a buzz," Margie guzzled the wine, dribbling a little on the crisp white tablecloth. "Selfish, my ass . . . " She continued to mumble while Trina looked around the restaurant for their waiter.

Catrina caught the eye of the dark waiter. "Yo, sweetie," she called, not really meaning anything by it. His dark brown eyes smiled back at her as he approached their table. Hmmm, she thought, nice eyes and a cute smile, if you like that tall, dark type. She knew better than to date waiters. They were all aspiring actors. Egotistical nuts. She was a dancer � an artist. Her tastes in men went to the eccentric, anyway. Trina spent way too much time around the hip crowd, the heroin-chic: long-haired and rangy men, sexy in their stringy, bad-boy way. She hadn't been interested in 'normal' looking guys since she moved to Manhattan six years ago. She had dated a few male models, but they didn't suit her for long. Besides, she didn't like competing with a man over bathroom counter space. Chase, the man she was currently seeing, although somewhat sporadically, was a sound guy for a recording studio. He showed her off to a few of his friends, some not so famous, a few who could be famous one day. Name-dropping and networking was just a way of life in her business.

Trina looked up at the waiter and smiled distractedly. "My friend would like to order another bottle of that burgundy. I need another glass of water, this time with a twist of lemon," Trina dismissed the waiter with a curt smile, turning back to Margie and her mood swings. She loved Margie like a sister, but sometimes her whining about men was enough to make her scream. The girl had a face and body that would get any man she wanted, and all she could do was bitch.

"How do you do it, Trina? How do you stay so cool and detached when it comes to men? You aren't, like, a total lesbian, are you?" Margie leaned across the table to get a closer look at Trina, as if she could possibly read the answer in her sky blue eyes.

Trina shrugged, bemused by her friend. "Why? Are you asking me out?" she teased as her friend turned crimson. "No, I'm not a lesbian. I'm a sexual free-spirit, I guess."

Trina swirled the remains of the ice and water in her glass. "I just don't think it's such a big deal. Sex, I mean. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for getting off on a regular basis, even better if it's with some stud that's easy on the eyes. I just have other goals in mind," she shrugged again.

"I don't know how you do it. I think I've got that thing Oprah talks about all the time. You know, I'm co-dependant or something like that. Maybe I should see a shrink."

"Maybe you need to get out and party with the girls more often, and stop falling for every guy you see," Trina lifted her glass. She tilted the remains of the water into her mouth. Ice slid down the glass and between her vixen-tinged lips. The dark color of the lipstick and silky black hair, a genetic throw-down from her Asian mother, contrasted beautifully with her alabaster skin. The rest of her physical attributes: fair complexion, light dusting of freckles and pale blue eyes was a gift from her Irish father. Trina fixed her gaze on Margie, waiting for the ax to fall.

"Oh? And what about you?" Margie shot back.

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have to remind you about Corey? Remember coke-head Corey?" Margie prodded, smirking, and Trina turned her head downward.

"Corey was a sweet guy," Trina defended him weakly.

"Corey was a fucking loser. He always was and always will be. And you'd be in the shitter with him, looking for your next fix, if I didn't save your sorry ass from him," Margie spat superiorly.

Trina looked around nervously. She acknowledged to herself that she hadn't always made the best choices when it came to men, but it still hurt when Margie would bring the subject of Corey up to her.

"Forget about Corey, ok. He's like, yesterday's news anyway. And just forget about Mark, too," Trina changed the subject. "Me and you, we'll go out tomorrow night and party our asses off. Zoe said something about getting us into that new club on 57th. I'll let you borrow my latex dress. It looks much better on you anyway," Trina smiled at her friend.

"Yeah, that sounds like fun. Mark and I were supposed to celebrate our eight-month anniversary of our first date.... Asshole." Margie sniffled, dabbing at her nose with her napkin, then continued, justifying to herself her insults. "Besides, he has a small dick."

"So?" Trina looked sideways at her best friend. "I mean, it, like, works doesn't it?

"Yeah," Margie said sheepishly.

"You've got to be a little less picky about everything."

"I know. I'm just mad at him, is all," she relented slightly.

"C'mon then. We'll help you forget the prick. Who needs him anyway, huh?" Trina reached across the table, handing Margie her own napkin. "You sure you want another bottle of wine? I can cancel the order and we can leave? I'll take you home and fix you a nice pot of herbal tea. Doesn't that sound good?" Trina took her friend's hand. "It's a new brand, something from Lin Chu's Apothecary. Good for your karma or your dogma or whatever."

"Hon, I�d rather have a buzz than good karma."

On cue, the waiter delivered the bottle of wine to the two women, making a show of uncorking the fragrant burgundy and pouring a dash into a fresh glass.

"Are you sure you won't be having any?" he asked in his slightly Greek accent, his dark eyes fastened on Trina.

She shook her head, barely acknowledging the waiter's presence, and looked back at Margie. The bottom of Margie's glass stared back at Trina. "Just water."

The waiter placed Trina's second glass of water in front of her with a plate of sliced lemons. Trina looked up at him and smiled distractedly. "Could we please have our check now?"

"Of course," he smiled broadly as he headed toward the kitchen.

Fonda walked through the door to the kitchen after bringing the bottle of wine to the two young women. The 29-year-old Greek turned sharply to look through the door's porthole window at the table with the two long-legged raven-haired women draped around it.

"Stavros, come here," Fonda grabbed his younger brother's arm, almost causing him to drop a stack of plates.

"Fonda, be careful," he gave an angry look at his brother. "What do you need?"

"She's here again. Look out there," the older brother indicated the table where Trina was sitting.

"Who?"

"You know, the girl. The airhead."

Stavros looked through the circular window. "Oh yes. I've seen her. Beautiful, and a great body, but she drinks like a fish."

"What? No, not that one. The other one. The tall one eating the salad. Look at her."

"The one over there?"

"Yes, look at her. She's gorgeous. A little dingy, but gorgeous."

"Yes, she's pretty too. She has great legs but she's a little thin, don't you think?"

"You're crazy. She's beautiful. There's something about her that is so exotic looking," Fonda again looked out the small window.

"Why don't you ask her out?"

"She doesn't even know I exist," Fonda huffed, shaking his head.

"Fonda, you need to have more fun. All you do is work. You need to get out a little," Stavros shook his head. "You stare at her every time she comes in here. What do you have to lose, a night in front of the TV?"

Fonda sighed and went to the register to prepare the check.
 
 

"Men just suck, suck, suck. . . they do," Margie repeated, downing another glass from the new bottle of wine. She fished her cell phone from her backpack and began punching at the keypad, avoiding contact between the buttons and her long red fingernails.

"Who are you calling?" Trina asked.

"Mark. I'm going to tell him how much he sucks."

"Tell him I said hello. Oh, and that I think he bites for making you upset. Wait!" Trina nearly shrieked as she grabbed her friend's hand. "Tell him we have plans tonight. Don't tell him where, let him wonder," Trina smiled, anticipating Mark's reaction. She loved stirring up a little trouble with the jerk.

"Mark? You suck. Like, I really hate you. No, I love you but you still suck. What? Fuck you. Yeah, that's right. Fuck you and you suck," Margie stabbed at the phone, disconnecting the call.

"I gotta go. I just can't stay here anymore," she stumbled from her chair, gathering up her
backpack and phone. "I'll see you later."

And then she was gone.
 
 

II

Trina's mouth dropped open. A half-uttered word hung in the air as Margie ran down the sidewalk, a flash of staggering black and red rushing past their window seat.

"Dammit," Trina breathed audibly, reaching for the notebook with the bill tucked inside. Her stomach dropped when she saw the amount. She hadn�t been paid for her last gig yet, Friday they promised. Her credit card was maxed-out and she only had six dollars and thirty-two cents and three subway tokens in her wallet, enough to pay for her small salad and leave a little tip for the waiter and then get home.

She placed her credit card within the leather case and held her breath as the waiter took it with a smile. Please, she thought, just let it go through without a problem. I promise, I'll pay a lot of it off when I get paid. Somehow I'll pay my bills, even if it means crawling to that sleaze, Justin, for a part in one of his skin flicks.

Fonda returned to the table a couple of minutes later wearing a frown. Trina could feel the pit in her stomach enlarge with each step he took toward her table.

"I'm sorry miss, but your credit card has been declined. Do you have another?"

"Are you sure? I just made a huge payment on it, like, two weeks ago," Trina lied nervously. "Maybe you can run it through again?"

"I ran it through the machine twice, and then called the credit card company to check on it. They
said you are over your limit."

Trina squirmed in her seat, staring down at the table trying to think of something. She rummaged through her wallet, searching for something she knew was not there, anything to delay having to deal with the waiter. Finally, as she could feel his eyes bearing down on her and she could take it no longer, Trina took a deep breath and looked up at the large man hovering over her.

"Listen, whatever your name is, it's um . . . like this," Trina said defensively in her slightly nasal Long Island accent. "I get paid for my last gig on Friday. Ya ever heard of a band called 'Mondo Monkey Ride'? Like, the rage with the street kids. Well, those are my legs in the music video. That's right. My legs, my belly, my arms and even a flash of my ass. The going rate on fly girls is boss. I can pay you on Friday, capisce?" She tried to show a tough front, but in reality she was trembling with fear.

"Did you eat your meal on Friday, or today?" Fonda asked flatly with a slightly Aegean accent.

"What? Is this, like, a trick question? What do you think?" Trina snapped back.

"Well, since you ate today, I expect you to pay today," Fonda countered, a little frustrated with her obstinance, but at the same time a little turned on by the way she was squirming in her seat. His eyes briefly fell to the light sprinkling of freckles on her chest. He noticed a slight rise in the soft skin above the opening of her top. He wondered how much of her creamy skin was freckled. "Do you have any experience gutting fish?"

"What? Like, you don't really expect me to touch fish?"

"No. I expected you to pay your bill. You ate today, you pay today. Otherwise, the fish are waiting"

Trina started playing with the silver bangle bracelets on her wrist. The thought of cleaning fish was nothing compared to the embarrassment that she felt at not being able to pay her bill. She was going to get Margie for this. Trina just hoped that something would come to mind soon to get her out of the mess.

"Hey, Fonda. What's the problem?" Stavros had noticed the somewhat strained conversation between his brother and the woman he recently fawned over in the kitchen.

"This woman says she cannot pay her check. I suggested to her the fish need gutting," Fonda told his younger brother.

"I'm not touching any fish. I could break a nail. I want to talk with the manager." Ha, she thought, I'll go over this flunky's head.

"You are speaking with him. I own this restaurant," Fonda said in a matter-of-fact tone meant to impress Trina a little. Her hopes sank.

"Well, there's always an alternative," suggested Stavros with a bit of a smirk.

"What do you mean, alternative?" Fonda asked curiously.

"Yeah, what do you mean, alternative?" Trina was suspicious.

Fonda wondered what his brother was up to now. Stavros was never shy around the ladies. He dated many women, and Fonda envied him his outgoing nature. Although he had gone out with several women, Fonda's relationships always seemed to develop slowly over time and he was always ill at ease engaging in small talk with women, especially women � like Trina � whom he was attracted to.

"I was thinking that we could set up an alternative arrangement, instead of paying the check." Smiling a little too slyly, Stavros looked from Fonda to Trina. "Fonda needs a little help with something this afternoon. It is an odd request, but maybe if you could help him we could forget this little incident with the expensive wine and bad credit card."

Trina gasped. "You perv! Exactly what are you trying to get me to do? I don't go for weird shit. Besides, I don't even know � shit! Why am I even talking about this?" Trina sputtered in anger.

"Please miss, my brother, he suffers with dementia when he spends too much time in the meat cooler," Fonda glared at his brother, laying a cool hand on Trina's shoulder to calm her.

Trina glared up at Fonda and removed his hand from her shoulder. "The name�s Trina � not miss," Trina added, cool blue eyes narrow and flashing a warning at the men. Fonda smiled an apology before turning back to his brother.

Stavros laughed. "No, no, you misunderstand what I am suggesting. Let me finish. Please?"

"You agree the bill is quite high and cannot be written off just like that?" Stavros snapped his fingers. "I happen to know that my brother here, Fonda, must perform a task for our mother this afternoon, a task he dreads, because � "

Fonda interrupted, sputtering in embarrassment, "Oh, Stavros! Please! The lady has no interest in . . ."

"All right, like, what could it be?" Trina asked with just a little curiosity.

"You also do not wish to clean those icky fish in the back, do you Miss Trina?" Stavros directed this question to Trina with a little pout to his lips. He smiled.

Trina shrugged and absentmindedly looked down at her hands. "No, I can't do that. What's my other choice?"

Trina looked at Fonda, noticing with glee a tinge of a blush darkening his bronze skin. She was curious. What could make a man blush like that? "Tell me, Fonda. What do you have to do?"

Stavros stepped back, but not before nudging his brother forward. "I, uh, I must bring Coco to the groomer," Fonda mumbled, looking down at the tiled floor.

"What?"

"He must bring our mother's Shih tsu to the groomer for a hair cut or whatever it is the mutt has done at the doggie salon," Stavros didn't even try to suppress the laugh that spilled out loudly.

Fonda glared at his brother. Trina looked at them both as if they were crazy.

"Wait. Let me get this straight. If I help you bring your mother's dog to the groomer, you'll forget this nearly three-figure bill? Right. What's the catch?" Trina guffawed. A few of the diners turned to look at the young woman with bangled arms clasped over her belly as she continued to laugh loudly. She bent over, still laughing. Fonda noticed the freckles on her chest disappear deeper under her shirt. At that point he lost interest in the freckles when the outline of her naked breasts became visible as she continued to lean over. Her breasts, obviously not constrained within a bra, jiggled with each laugh. Fonda blushed deeper, clearing his throat in embarrassment.

"You do not know Coco Puff," Fonda muttered.

"Coco Puff? His name is really Coco Puff, like the cereal? No, no, please. This is, like, way too funny," Trina threw her head back, laughing hysterically. Fonda couldn't take his eyes off the long white arch of her neck, swanlike and graceful. Delicate, tender, the neck of . . .

"Truly, Miss Trina, Coco Puff is the devil reincarnate. And he doesn't like Fonda very much,"

Stavros joined in the laughter.

Fonda shifted his weight, picking up the credit card again from the table.

Fonda blushed slightly. "Please forget what just happened, and you can follow me. I'll show you where the fish are cleaned."

"What?!?" Trina had been so stunned by Stavros's proposal she had forgotten about the more immediate need to pay her check.

She took a closer look at Fonda; he was clean and kind of cute � tall, with broad shoulders and dark, Mediterranean features. She thought that a lot of women would find him very attractive. Yes he was a waiter, but he also owned the restaurant, which was a step up � a large step up. Maybe one date wouldn't be such a bad idea � it certainly had to be a better alternative to touching a fish. What the hell, it's only one date, she figured, a free meal is a free meal. If he was really lame, she could always fake being sick and ditch him early.

"You know, I was, like, thinking," Trina intoned in her distinctive Nassau county accent.

Trina looked up at Fonda. He was embarrassed. Something inside of her felt a little sympathy for the poor guy. His brother made him look like a fool. "Yes, I'll protect you from the little hairy monster. When?"

Was he hearing correctly? She would help him out of this embarrassing situation? What was he thinking? She was the one in the embarrassing situation. He wasn't going to let her get the best of him. "Miss ah...Murphy," Fonda glanced at the card for her last name, "I will keep your card until five o'clock this evening. At that time I will either expect to see you with the right amount of cash, ready to clean fish, or prepared to spend a few hours in my company. And Coco's. If these alternatives do not meet with your approval and you choose not to show up, I will simply provide my attorney with your credit card and unpaid bill," Fonda turned and walked away, leaving Trina to stare after him.

"Well, Miss Trina, I have never seen Fonda this way before. I suggest you do not make him follow through on his threat. The last customer who couldn't pay their bill was slapped with a fine and community service."

Stavros turned to follow Fonda back into the kitchen, leaving Trina to make a decision. She nudged her backpack over one shoulder and pushed her way out of the door, stopping briefly to look back at the kitchen through the leaded glass of the front door. "Shit. I'm going to kill Margie." Trina took off down the street, taking the steps to the subway.

Fonda and Stavros watched Trina leave. They saw her stop and look back, deep in thought. She then turned and walked away, her knee high lace up boots splashing in the recent rain.

"Yes!" They both hooted, giving each other a high five.
 
 

III

Trina stepped from the subway and walked the three blocks to her Greenwich Village apartment on West 10th Street. She sighed audibly as she hiked up the four floors to her walk-up apartment in which she shared with Margie. Unlocking the door, she entered and saw her best friend sprawled out on the couch, obviously sleeping away the bottle and a half of red wine she had instead of lunch.

"Hey Trina," Margie stirred, squinting and stretching her arms over her head. "What time is it?"

"A little after three. Did you come straight home after lunch?"

"I did a little shopping first, I couldn't go back to work. My boss was out today anyway," she stifled a yawn.

"Oh, by the way Margie, thanks for stiffing me with the bill," Trina looked down at her friend, a hint of anger in her eyes. "Which wouldn't have been bad because I know you're good for it � and I know where you live," Trina snickered but then continued with a pained expression, "but, all I had was a little over six bucks and my credit card was maxed-out."

"Oh shit, Trina. I'm really sorry. I feel awful," Margie looked at her best friend apologetically. "So what did you do?"

"Oh, you'll never believe what I got myself into."

Trina proceeded to tell her friend about the suggestion to gut fish and the interesting solution that Stavros had come up with for Trina to get out of paying the bill.

"Oh wow, Trina. What are you going to do?" Margie sat up and looked intently at her roommate.

"I don't know. What can I do? I don't want to go, but I don't want to get fined or do community service. I'm not going to shovel shit off the street, or whatever they make you do for community service. Remember Frankie, the guy I met last year on the Rage video? When they got him on doping with some street hack he had to do community service and they had him digging up flower beds in Battery Park," Trina sighed. "You don't really think they'd do that for not paying a restaurant bill, would they?"

"No, they were just blowing smoke up your ass to scare you . . . Probably," Margie stated less than confidently. "Unless there was something wrong with your credit card. Have you been writing hot checks to pay your credit card bill? I mean, I think that�s a felony or something," Margie added.

Trina bit her lip and stared at Margie. "Shit. A felony? Really?"

Margie nodded, "I�m not really sure but maybe you should just do what these guys want."

"This just sucks. This guy is like, so not my type."

"Which guy is it?"

"The waiter, you know, the waiter we had today . . . the real square," Trina plopped down on the couch next to her friend, resting her head on Margie's shoulder.

"The big hunky guy?" Margie asked, stroking her fingers along Trina's thigh. "He's cute � really cute. But why do you have to go out with the waiter?"

"'Cause he also owns the place. So it's either that, or the fish," Trina shuddered as she tried not to envision her delicate hands touching the business end of a fish.

Margie placed her hand inside the slit in Trina's skirt, caressing the inside of her thigh and lightly brushing her fingertips against her best friend's panty clad pussy.

"Mmmm," Trina moaned, closing her eyes. "I don't know what to do about this."

"Go, Trina. What have you got to lose? He's a lot cuter than that Chase guy you've been going out with."

"Stop it Margie, that tickles." Trina removed Margie's hand from under her skirt. "I'm not in the mood, anyway. I'm pissed about this. God, it's like you're a perpetual horny machine."

"What?" Margie asked innocently. "I thought it might take your mind off of things."

Trina tucked her legs underneath her and spun on the couch to face her roommate. "Chase is cute. The waiter guy, Fonda's his name. Anyway this Fonda isn't my type. He's just too straight. Plus there was something a little too pathetic about the whole setup. If I don't go, what's the worse thing that can happen? I'm going to get paid on Friday for my gig, so I'll pay them then."

"If they pay you on time this time," Trina's friend reminded her.

"Yeah," she sighed and brought her hands up to her face in resignation. "Anyway, if they � hey! You could go down there and pay now. Most of the bill was yours anyway," Trina felt relieved that the solution presented itself to her so neatly.

"Uh . . . Trina, honey. Don't be pissed, but remember when I told you that I, like, did a little shopping before coming home?" Margie said hesitatingly.

"Yeah," she said warily. Trina didn't like where this was going.

"Well, here's the thing. I finally bought that pair of Ferragamo shoes that I've been looking at for weeks. I thought buying them would cheer me up and help me get over Mark. I also got a dress to go with them."

"Shit, Margie. What am I going to do now?"

"Go out with him, have a good time. He seems like a nice guy � normal anyway."

Trina didn't answer, she just huffed as she headed off to her bedroom to sulk about her fate until it was time to meet Fonda.

Trina didn't even bother changing clothes. She wasn't interested in impressing this Fonda guy. All she wanted was to �Pay her bill� as it were and meet Tracey at the pier for the nighttime shoot. The antique clock above the bar said a few minutes before five-o�clock. Trina shook out her sleek black hair and stood at the bar, one booted-foot propped on the brass rail, elbows resting on the mahogany surface. She hooked her thumbs through the straps of her black backpack, examining herself in the mirror behind the bar. Deciding to touch up her dark lipstick, she plopped the backpack on the bar and rummaged around until she found the near-empty tube of "Vixen." Her hip cocked to one side and a gleam of a white thigh peeked from beneath the hip length slit of her tight black skirt. All this she ignored, or staged, as she leaned forward to apply the dark gloss to her pursed lips. Black lace-up boots began to tap to a silent beat in her head � the same choreographed dance moves from the evening�s video shoot constantly played over and over in her mind. The thin strap of her deep purple top slipped from one shoulder as she returned the tube of gloss to her backpack. She looked up as a glass of wine was placed in front of her by the bartender. "Wait. I didn't order . . . oh, it's you," Trina remarked. Fonda smiled stiffly back at Trina.

"This one is on the house," Fonda said, placing the glass on a cocktail napkin.

"Thanks but no thanks. I've got a gig tonight. Alcohol makes me retain water. And with the skimpy outfit I have to wear, I better just stick to water."

"Gig? Dancing with monkeys again?" Fonda asked, taking a sip from the rejected wine.

Trina gave him a sarcastic glare. "No. We're doing a video shoot down at the wharf for some Latin band. It's a bitchin' little salsa number, sorta."

Fonda nodded, eyebrows raised as if he understood. "Bitching? Is this good or bad?"

Trina rolled her eyes. "Uh, like, are you always such a dweeb?"

Fonda looked at her smiling his amusement. "Dweeb? I don't think so. Unless that's a good thing to be, then maybe I am," Trina was so different, so radical, there was something about her abrasiveness and temper that turned him on.

"Yeah, and a half . . . . Let's bail. I don't have all that much time," Trina told him.

"You want me to show you how to gut a fish?"

"Hello? Let's get your mom's mongrel. I'll protect you from the savage little beast," Trina tittered as she turned from the bar. Fonda hurried around the bar and followed her, easing in front of her to hold the door open. "After you, Trina." Fonda smiled down at her, standing almost a foot taller than her.

Trina looked up at him and smiled slightly. She didn't know what to think about this guy. Sure, he had manners. He had charm. He wasn't a Baldwin but he was still attractive in a tall, dark and handsome way. In fact, she liked the attention he was showing her, even if he was a dweeb.

"Thank you, Fonda."

Trina actually warmed and flushed when his hand briefly strayed to the small of her back. He applied gentle pressure, guiding her to a silver BMW Z3 that was parked in front of the restaurant. She tried to hide her surprise when he unlocked the passenger side door, holding the door open in a very gentlemanly way. "Whoa. Fish pays good, huh?" Trina couldn't help but ask. She slid down into the soft leather seat

Fonda smiled, closed the door and leaned over the convertible toward her, handing her the seat belt. "Depends. We're always busy and I have invested my money wisely."

Trina watched him walk around the front of the car and get in. The engine purred to life. Trina tossed her backpack on top of her feet, looking at this guy in a slightly new way. Despite all her shallowness, she firmly believed toys didn�t make the man. But this man was beginning to have an effect on her. Oh, no you don't, she chastised herself. Just because he has a good job and a nice car and he's all right to look at doesn't make him a good guy. He could be a serial killer during a full moon for all she knew. In fact, she didn't really know him at all and here she was riding to God knows where with him.

"Uh, just so you know, Margie, my friend, knows where I am. I told her we were going to take care of something for your mother. So, you know � " Trina's words trailed off when she met Fonda's amused expression.

"You are afraid? Of me?" he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Hell no. I'm just letting you know, that's all. I mean, I don't, like, get in cars with strange men, you know. It's not like I don't know there are lots of weirdos out there," Trina huffed. "Besides, my agent will be expecting me on Pier 35 at 9:00 p.m. sharp."

"Such an odd place to dance. A pier. So dirty and all . . . a woman shouldn't have to go down there alone," Fonda shook his head.

"Oh please. Don't get all Cary Grant on me, okay? You're not one of those old-fashioned types, are you?" Trina looked over at Fonda with a teasing grin.

"Perhaps a little old-fashioned is not a bad thing. Is your seat belt fastened properly?" Fonda tugged at her waist strap, checking for himself.

"Stop it! That's so funny!" Trina was laughing loudly now, slapping playfully at his thigh.

"What is wrong with being concerned over a woman's safety?"

"Nothing, I guess. Just don't lose any sleep over it, though. I mean, like, I carry Mace and all," Trina responded.

"Mace. Ha!" Fonda scoffed at Trina's revelation that she carried the blinding spray.

"And maybe something else," Trina shrugged.

"You carry a concealed weapon in that backpack? I believe that is against the law, Ms. Trina," Fonda looked shocked. "Besides, you could hurt yourself."

Trina rolled her eyes. "Just don't get any ideas, okay fish-boy?"

Fonda was silent. He turned his attention back to the road. Trina peeked at him from time to time. He seemed to be tensing his jaw, working a little muscle in his cheek. He shifted gears a little harder this time. "Never call me that again."

Trina was silent. She was brusque on a good day and today wasn't a good day. Maybe she had been a little too rude to this man. He was being very nice to her, after all. She swallowed her large pride and touched his leg. "I'm really sorry, Fonda. Really. I'm kinda a bitch sometimes, especially before a gig. That�s no excuse." Trina removed her hand and stared straight ahead. "I guess I'm not used to real gentlemen."

That seemed to soften him a little. Fonda glanced over at Trina and smiled. "Let me at least drive you to your appointment at the pier. Seeing that I am a gentleman with a car."

Trina smiled wanly. "I guess that would be all right."

"Except..." Fonda began and shook his head.

"What?"

"Well, I was going to remind you that you have not met Coco Puff yet," Fonda chuckled, turning once more to smile at Trina.

Trina relaxed and smiled. "I can't wait," she said flatly.
 
 

IV

Fonda and Trina drove south toward lower Manhattan as Trina fiddled with the radio. She changed stations every seven seconds, it seemed, much to Fonda's consternation.

"Can't you find a station that you like and keep it there?" Fonda asked in his slightly Greek accent.

"Noooo," Trina rolled her eyes. "There might be something better on another station."

Fonda smiled as he reflected on the differences between the two of them. Trina was always looking for something new and different, where as he was perfectly content with finding something he liked and sticking with it. He watched her brush the hair from in front of her face and knew what he wanted.

Three years ago when his parents gave him and his brother controlling interest in the restaurant, Fonda wanted to put it on the map, make it one of the spots. Through tireless work � and yes, even giving free meals to a few well-placed theater executives. He knew that, above all, theater folk loved freebies and if producers ate there, the actors and directors would follow. That opened the floodgates and the family restaurant became a fashionable spot to be seen. Fonda felt as if he had a license to print money. He was nothing if not driven, and now as he watched Trina move and sing quietly to some energetic song that he had never heard before, Fonda knew that what it was that he wanted was Trina, and he wouldn't stop until she was his.

"Hey, why are you getting in the tunnel?" Trina stopped singing and turned sharply toward Fonda as the BMW left West St. and headed into the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel toward the borough of Brooklyn. "I thought your folks lived in Manhattan? I didn't realize they lived in Brooklyn. I hope I get to my shoot in time."

"You'll be there in plenty of time, Trina. I don't believe I indicated where they live," Fonda reassured her with a smirk that went unnoticed.

"So, how does someone so young get to own, like, one of the hottest restaurants in midtown?" Trina took a break from channel surfing to turn and ask Fonda the question. As she did, she pulled her legs underneath her, exposing part of her thigh. Fonda noticed, looking for a bit too long, and had to swerve to avoid colliding with a car in another lane. Trina took note and giggled softly.

"Well," Fonda tried to glance at her without staring at her bare thigh. He was only partially successful. "My parents owned it for about 40 years; they opened it up when they first came to America just after they were married. I've been running it for a few years now. They retired for good three years ago. They left the restaurant to me and Stavros, but he really wants nothing to do with the running of it, so it's essentially my restaurant."

"Cool. The place is always totally busy. That's probably why you can afford a car like this."

"Well, I work very hard and a lot of hours," said the young Greek. "I don't reward myself often. But I walk by a showroom every day, and I couldn't help but notice this car. Eventually I said, 'What the fu . . .' I mean, 'to hell with it, I'm buying the car,'" Fonda blushed slightly at his choice of words.

"So do you, like, do anything for fun other than buying expensive German sportscars?"

"One or two things," he grinned slightly, but Trina took note, and began to think there was more to fish-boy here than met the eye.

"So, what about you? How long have you been a � what was it you said? A 'fly girl.'?" Fonda's look of confusion caused Trina to chuckle.

"Well," her smile broadened as she turned almost fully in her seat to face him. The scenery � the Gowanus expressway, the Brooklyn city scape � passed forgotten as Trina started talking about the love of her life: dancing. "I'm a dancer is what that means. Like tonight, I'm going to be in a video shoot for a Latin band."

"So what kind of dancing do you do?"

"Any kind really. Tonight it's salsa but I'm classically trained � I really like traditional dance, you know, ballet."

Fonda eyed her last statement with a hint of suspicion and chuckled to himself as he thought that 'classically trained' to Trina probably meant that she was once a member of the 'Solid Gold Dancers'. Trina, with all her black vinyl, excessive dangling jewelry and attitude, didn�t seem like the ballerina type. "So why do you dance in these videos?"

"Because, Zorba," she said with more than a little impertinence, "they pay the bills. It's a bitch getting on Broadway."

"Well, Broadway is tough. They only take the best."

"Yeah, well I went to Juliard and then I danced with the Jean le Bon Dance Company for a couple of years." Trina swelled with pride at her most notable achievements and Fonda was, for the first time, impressed with Trina more than for how she looked.

"That's impressive. Why don't you still dance with them?"

"Well . . . it's a long story. You miss a couple of rehearsals and they get all torqued off. It's all bullshit . . . And I danced in the Jubilee show at the Sands in Atlantic City for nine months last year, so I think . . . Hey! Why are we going over the bridge? I thought you said your folks lived in Brooklyn. This is going to Staten Island!"

"No, you assumed my parents lived in Brooklyn. I never actually said where they live," Fonda snickered slightly. "They live in Staten Island."

She began to wonder if she needed to remind him she needed to be somewhere. Trina studied Fonda's profile for a moment before speaking. "You know I have to be somewhere, don't you? I mean, I just can't be late for this gig," she fumbled in her backpack for some gum. If she showed up for the gig late Zeek would never hire her again. She really needed this job. Trina unwrapped a stick of gum, offering Fonda half. "I'll split it with ya'. It's my last piece."

He turned and flashed a smile at her. "No, no, please. You take the whole piece," he smiled, nearly laughing, as she shoved the cinnamon flavored gum in her mouth. "Don't worry, I'll get you to the pier on time."

"Okay, like, I don't know why, but I trust you. And if you make me late for this VERY IMPORTANT gig I'll just . . . just . . . well, I'll do something. Don't know what . . . but . . . " Trina let the idle threat fade away as they continued their drive in near silence.

"You know, I've lived in New York my whole life and I don't think I've ever been to Staten Island," Trina said.

"Oh it's very pretty. You'll like it. It's so different from the rest of the city. In fact, did you know that the Verazano Narrows bridge was designed by Othmar Ammann, who used to sit in his apartment on the 26th floor of the Hotel Carlyle and, with his telescope, would look out at the nine New York bridges that he designed?"

Trina looked at him sideways, "Wow. The flamenco guitarist, ya know, New Age or jazz, dependin' what record store you visit? I didn't know he was from New York."

"Plus," Fonda ignored her tangent, chuckling. "Staten Island, whose official name is Richmond, is also home to one of the world's largest landfills."

"What do you do, like, work for the visitor's bureau?" Trina raised one eyebrow.

"What can I say? I love New York," he paused and laughed. "Yes, I know that's a slogan."

Trina chuckled. "So, you still live at home? Like, with your Mom and Dad?" Trina crinkled up her nose in distaste, imagining what it would be like for her if she still lived at home. "I mean, like, you're old." Trina watched the side of his face and noticed his lips turn up in a smile.

"I do my own laundry if that's what concerns you," he turned and winked. "I even make my own breakfast . . . And I'm not that old."

Trina smiled a little, not sure if Fonda was trying to tease her or not. "That's cool," she played around with the radio for a while, looking for another distraction.

Trina barely noticed the scenery passing them by. Every time she was scheduled for a shoot she became jittery and nervous. She began counting the steps in her head, moving slightly back and forth to whatever song came on the radio. Homes and green grass passed her by unnoticed. Other cars didn't matter, Fonda didn't even matter at the moment. She was already at the gig in her head, performing to the very best of her ability. All eyes were on her as she took the attention away from the star. She was the star now.

"Here we are," Fonda interrupted her fantasy.

"Whoa. This is where you live?" Trina stared at the beautiful home in awe. Trees and colorful flowers dotted the large lawn. A working fountain, marble and graceful, gurgled happily at the center of the circular drive. Trina hadn't seen anything like that around New York that wasn't covered in pigeon shit. "Gorgeous."

Fonda pulled his car around the drive, stopping at a porte cochere on the side of the house. Before she had a chance to move he had hopped around the car and stood holding the door open for her. "Now, please, when we enter the side door, stand behind me. I do not want Coco Puff to snap at you. The mutt has been known to lock its tiny jaws and not let go for an hour or more."

"You must be joking. I'm so sure. A little puppy-dog," Trina was already cooing, crouching to her knees as the handsome elderly woman opened the door, allowing the dog to escape the house.

"Fonda! I didn't know you brought company! Shame on you, you could have let me known. I could have cooked."

The woman approached Trina with her hand extended. Fonda had the same eyes, big almond- shaped brown eyes. Trina couldn't help but smile as her hand was engulfed by the older woman's firm grasp. "Nice to meet you, young lady. My name is Alcina."

Fonda was speechless as Trina and his mother introduced themselves to each other. One of Trina's hands was in his mothers while the other was absentmindedly stroking the mutt from hell, and the mutt from hell was loving every minute of it.

Coco Puff licked Trina's hand. Trina began to wonder if Fonda was the over-reactionary type. This dog couldn't possibly be as mean as he made it out to be. "I thought you said Coco Puff was vicious?" Trina glanced suspiciously at Fonda.

Fonda's mother chuckled. "No, Coco Puff despises my Fonda. I continually wonder if Fonda has done something to make my little Coco so angry."

"I would never hurt an animal, mother. Tell me, did I even react harshly to the mutt when he did this?" Fonda pointed to a small scar on his forearm. "He is a vicious beast."

Fonda's mother tutted and shook her head, scooping up Coco Puff from the ground. "You scared him, that's all."

The dog licked Alcina's hand lovingly before he turned toward Fonda and bared his teeth, growling.

Fonda and Trina followed Alcina Daskalakis into the huge Victorian house. Trina looked around, impressed with the elegant ambiance of their home.

"Come here you two. Let me get you something to eat," offered Fonda's mother.

"No, thank you mother," said Fonda. "I had something to eat before I left the restaurant."

"Surely you want something to eat," she smiled warmly at Trina. "You're so thin. You need to get some meat on those bones."

"No thanks, nothing for me either, Mrs. D. I have a gig tonight," Trina explained.

"A gig. What's a gig?" the small woman asked suspiciously in a heavy Greek accent.

"Trina's a dancer. She has a performance this evening."

"Oh, a dancer. How lovely," Fonda's mother smiled and then turned not too subtly toward Fonda. "Not one of those on 42nd street with all the nakedness?"

Trina laughed. "No. I studied at Juliard. I'd like to get on Broadway, but right now I do a lot of work for music videos."

"Oh, yes," she crinkled her nose. "I've seen one of those. If I want to look at a woman's belly button, I'll lift my blouse."

"That's a pleasant image," Fonda and Trina thought almost simultaneously as they turned to each other and smiled, trying to suppress laughter.

At that point, the back door opened and a short, stocky man of about sixty or seventy years burst through carrying a bag of golf clubs. He had the hands of a lifetime of work and the face of a lifetime of smiles.

Just as Fonda was about to introduce Trina to his father, the old Greek started to speak in a thick accent. "Those goddamn dagos at the club, do you know what they did now, Alcina?"

"Please Anthony, we have company," Fonda's mother was clearly unnerved at her husband's racial epithet. Anthony Daskalakis was just about the most ethnically tolerant man that anyone knew and it bothered his wife of 43 years that he insisted on identifying people by the slur that was associated with their nationality.

"They let that Turk bastard in," he said, ignoring his wife. "The club's going to go to hell in a handbasket now." His ethnic tolerance was almost universal, except when it came to the Turks � historical enemies of the Greeks � whom he considered the reason for all the world's ills. "I can't take much more of this, Alcina, we might have to move to Miami Beach. No Turks down there; just Jews and Cubans and they don't bother me."

"Oh, we have company? Who is this beautiful girl?" Anthony smiled and took Trina's hand in his own and kissed the back of it. Trina giggled.

Fonda introduced Trina to his father, and the four spent the next ten minutes talking about the restaurant and Trina's dancing and the weather and whatever else they could fill with until Fonda announced that they needed to be leaving.

"Let me get the dog carrier for the mutt," Fonda said reluctantly.

"Oh, don't be silly," admonished Trina. "I'll just hold him." Trina picked up Coco, who proceeded to lavish licks all over her face when he wasn't growling at Fonda. Fonda was amazed at how well the dog took to her.

They drove the ten minutes to the groomer, Trina playing with the happy dog as if they'd known each other for years. Fonda parked in front of the groomers and got around to open Trina's door. As she stepped out of the car, the dog snarled and snapped at Fonda. Trina chuckled. "What did you ever do to this little dog to make him hate you so much?"

"Nothing. He's just always hated me. But that's fine, because I've never liked him much, either."

They brought Coco into the groomer, leaving the feisty animal with the clerk. "His usual, Doris. Whatever the usual is for the dog from hell." Doris scooped up the little package, smiling at Fonda.

"We're a little backed up today. Can Coco stay the night and someone come for her tomorrow?" she asked Fonda.

Fonda nodded. "Actually, I like that idea better. Tomorrow it is, then. Have a good evening, Doris."

Fonda and Trina left the small shop and returned to the car. "Now I think all your worries should be over. I will be able to bring you to your shoot even earlier than expected. How does that make you feel Ms. Trina? A little better?" Trina smiled nervously.