The Sunshine Line

The Sunshine Line

by Kat Folland

The Sunshine Line

Copyright: Kat Folland 2012

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Dana Cruz de Leon

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

There is no point in using the word impossible to describe something that has clearly happened.

-Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

Table of Contents

Tuesday March 17, 1992

Thursday April 16, 1992

Sunday May 17, 1992

Sunday May 31, 1992

Wednesday June 24, 1992

Thursday June 25, 1992

Friday June 26, 1992

Saturday June 27, 1992

Sunday June 28, 1992

Monday June 29, 1992

Tuesday June 30, 1992

Wednesday July 1, 1992

Acknowledgments and Special Thanks

About the Author

Also by Kat Folland

Keep up with Kat!

Tuesday March 17, 1992

I hate St. Patrick, Kristy muttered, casting dark glances around the pub.

I wasn't sure I'd heard her right. Although it was only four in the afternoon, the pub was already somewhat noisy, filling up with the would-be Irish. St. Patrick's Day is a little weird, I said, hazarding a guess at her meaning and eyeing an attractive Pakistani woman wearing a Kiss me, I'm Irish t-shirt.

Kristy followed my gaze and I hastily snapped my eyes back to meet hers. She said, Well, yes, Joe, it is, she said impatiently. But what I said was 'I hate St. Patrick'.

I'm sure I looked as puzzled as I felt. The man had been dead for something like 1,500 years. It struck me as a long time to hold a grudge. Also, Kristy herself would have to be remarkably well-preserved to have been personally insulted by the saint. I didn't really know much about him myself.

St. Patrick. Converted the Irish to Christianity, something about being a slave there once and some sort of nonsense about driving out snakes that were never there to begin with? Not too difficult, that last one, I've always thought. That pretty well summed up my knowledge. Is this the Saint Patrick you're objecting to?

Kristy looked grumpy again. No snakes. Oh there were snakes all right. Druids. All those saints revered for crushing out the native religions-- or for being killed for failing to do so. It makes me sick. She really looked as if it did make her feel sick.

I glanced around the room again, taking in an eye-stinging amount of green, from clothing to decorations to the green beer and suspicious-looking green concoctions in martini glasses being served at the bar. Suddenly I was very glad that I had ordered us a couple of Sierra Nevadas still in the bottle and hadn't worn anything green that day. I wondered if I should worry about the green on the beer bottle labels. It was always there, not a holiday thing, but ...

The place was getting noisier and looking more like the greenhouse of a rogue botanist every moment. Let's get out of here, go someplace quieter.

Kristy looked thoughtful for a minute. Well... we're not too far from my place.

I blinked a couple of times. She hadn't asked me back to her place yet. We'd been dating for five weeks, and she'd spent the night at my place a few times, but hadn't asked me to hers. She hadn't even told me if she had roommates. I hoped my surprise didn't show on my face, that my hesitation wasn't obvious. Yeah, sure, if you like, was my witty reply.

We can walk there from here, she said. It's down hill, even. Her smile was an absolutely charming combination of wicked, shy, and old-fashioned humor.

I'd paid cash for our beers, so we were free to vacate our little booth immediately. It was snatched up just as quickly by rowdy St. Patrick's Day revelers. I shrugged into my jacket, but Kristy hadn't removed her sweater. She looked so harmless and feminine in what appeared to be a long skirt and a simple cream top, but I knew the top was one of those odd female things that snapped below the happy bits and the skirt was actually really loose pants that only looked like a skirt. I don't know what those things are called, but Kristy wore them a lot. She had told me they were very comfortable and allowed for a great deal of freedom of movement without being obvious about it. They were that shade of navy blue that looked like it had seen a little too much sun. Kristy had a third level brown belt in Karate and had let me watch her teach a class one evening; despite her delicate appearance, she was anything but harmless. She slung her purse - a sort of small tote-bag affair that carried far fewer items than most women do - over her shoulder and led the way out of the Haight Street pub into the cold sunny air.

Like myself, Kristy lived on the right side of the Sunshine Line. Most days the City was divided between what was covered by fog and overcast and what was bathed by perfectly bright sunlight. The overall difference was slight. Neighborhoods on the right side of the Sunshine Line were usually cold and windy, too. Like most people, however, I preferred the sunshine anyway.

I took her hand as we walked east and downhill on Haight and then hung a right on Scott, then a left at Duboce Park. About a half a block down we stopped at a Victorian style house converted to apartments, and Kristy got her keys out to let us through the security gate. Cool location, I said. It must be nice to have the park right here.

I like a little break from the city streets. It's a pretty dinky park, but it's better than nothing. But really, it's my apartment itself that is my haven.

By the time she had finished her sentence we were at the top of the stairs, in front of her apartment door. Knowing Kristy, I tried to prepare myself for anything. The problem was that I just didn't know her that well yet. She didn't talk about herself or her past very much. She'd answer questions, but you'd have to think of exactly the right question. It certainly hadn't occurred to me to ask her to describe her apartment.

When she got the door open and we stepped inside I was indeed surprised, even awed. I could see why she called it her haven, even if it would seem a bit - maybe a lot - foreign to many people. I could feel her watching me as I took it in.

Stashed in the upper eaves of the transformed Victorian, her apartment was a large studio unlike any I'd seen in all my years in the City. I felt as though I had stepped through a matter transporter and ended up in an old-fashioned Japanese house. When Kristy turned the lights on, a fountain in the corner opposite the door started its musical play, trickling water from a bamboo spout into a small pool made from rounded river rocks. Her rectangular dining table had legs about fourteen inches high and instead of chairs it was surrounded by elaborately embroidered cushions that seated up to six. It had, oddly, a planter box sunk into the middle of it.

A beautiful tall screen, painted with landscapes done in an oriental style, stood by the far wall. I assumed her bed lay out of sight behind it. The whole floor was covered in a thick, deep blue plush carpet that felt soft and comforting even through the shoes that I dimly heard Kristy ask me to remove. I shook off my absorption of her living quarters and saw that she had already removed hers and placed them on a neat rack by the door, so I did the same. She met my eyes with a slightly nervous look, an unspoken question. It's incredible, Kristy! I love it!

The tiniest hint of a blush competed for a moment with the dusting of freckles on her cheeks. I'm glad you like it.

At the door end of the apartment were the bathroom and what served as a kitchen. The kitchen was quite small, and there was a half wall between it and the rest of the apartment. Someone who wasn't Kristy might have put some bar-stools there, but one of the things I did know about Kristy was how she hated to have her feet dangling like a child's. At sixty-two inches this was a constant issue for her, and I could see she'd be damned if she was going to deal with it in her own home.

Would you like some dinner? I didn't plan this out ahead, but I have stuff for a chicken Caesar salad or I could reheat the better part of a lasagna.

It was 5:30. A little early to eat, but not by the time dinner was ready, even if I picked the salad. The lasagna … well it's difficult to make lasagna badly, but it can be done. I decided to risk it. The lasagna sounds wonderful. What do you put in yours? I had committed myself, this question was just to prepare myself for whatever was coming.

I use four kinds of cheese and a mix of sausage and ground beef, she answered. I started salivating.

I can't wait, I said. Then added, but I guess I'll have to. That'll take a while to heat up. I smiled. I don't suppose you have one of those communal Japanese baths on the premises?

Kristy laughed. Wouldn't that be great? No, only this apartment is done up this way. It's all me.

I thought about her choice of words as we moved to the table to wait for the lasagna to warm up. Most people would have said mine, but Kristy's apartment was more a part of her than something that belonged to her.

Kristy, having decided that I really did like her choice of decor, chattered on about where she had gotten her hands on the various beautiful pieces in her home and confirmed my guess that the bed was behind the screen. It's not a traditional Japanese bed, comfortable beds aren't one of the things Japan is known for, she said, But I did skip the Hollywood frame; the box springs sit on the floor.

I asked her about the planter box in the table. It fills the hole, she said. I must have given her a first-rate blank stare, because she went on to explain in more detail.

It's an antique. Traditionally there would be a metal-lined box of hot coals in that space so the cooking could be done right at the table. I don't have the box, but I do have a piece of wood made to fit in the hole, so I can put an electric wok on and make tempura ready to eat as soon as it's cool enough. It spoiled me from ever ordering it in a restaurant. Her smile was complex; somehow impish, self-deprecating and proud.

It sounds wonderful, I said truthfully. San Francisco is not meant for the type of person who only wants to eat at chain restaurants and never try anything new. If my girlfriend could cook up tempura and lasagna with equal ease, she belonged here.

I didn't ask to see behind the screen. Either that was her intent in inviting me over here or it wasn't. I was having a fine time and learning so much about Kristy that it was more than worth it even if I was I was to be kissed goodnight at 8:00 pm and have to go home unloved. Oh well, that was later, this was now. And now was when the lasagna was coming out of the oven to rest for a few minutes before it was cool enough to eat. It smelled heavenly.

It tasted heavenly too. After we'd consumed what we both agreed was more than necessary, I pitched in to help her clean up. Reheated lasagna doesn't involve a lot of clean up, but Kristy - like so many San Franciscans - didn't have a dishwasher. I convinced her it made more sense for me to wash and her to dry since I didn't know where to put things away. I paid close attention, though, so maybe next time I could do the whole thing myself. If there was a next time.

Oof. I'm stuffed. You don't appear to have a TV, or I'd suggest a bit of postprandial video vegetation.

Actually, she said, sounding almost embarrassed, I do have one. Behind the screen, with my bed. And a VCR, if you'd like to watch a movie. She looked shy again. She'd been naked all over my apartment, and yet seemed to be shy about showing me her TV. I guess there are all kinds of intimacy.

I tried to sound respectful and yet enthusiastic - and I have no idea how it really came off - when I said, Sure! Have anything in mind, or shall we browse your library?

She led me behind that screen that I had been trying very hard to not obsess about. Her bed was neatly made and had a beautiful comforter done in blue and purple dyes. As Kristy had said, it sat flush on the floor. A mere two feet from the end of it was a TV cabinet, which Kristy opened to reveal tidy rows of video tapes. I was actually a little relieved to find them to be in no particular order.

Why don't I pick a few and then you can decide from there; something you're in the mood for or haven't seen in a while, I suggested.

Sounds reasonable, she said.

I browsed through the selection. I picked out Star Wars, The Princess Bride, Die Hard and When Harry Met Sally and handed the bulky stack to her. She looked at me, instead.

I'd like you to have dinner with my aunt and uncle, she said out of the blue. They're really great people. They raised me from when I was a baby. My father ran out on my mother when she was pregnant and my mother ran out on me when I was about three weeks old. My aunt and uncle are the only parents I've ever known.

Um, I replied intelligently. Then, I'd be honored. When can I meet them? I knew this was a big deal. This was Meet the Parents, albeit with surrogate parents. This must mean that Kristy was considering bumping me up a notch on the feelings level, or possibly the commitment level. Or that she had already done so and was looking for approval from the parents. Or it could be some sort of test. Women do that sort of thing, I've noticed. Then again, men do too.

As if reading my slight panic and racing thoughts, Kristy said It's not for almost a month.

Well that explained... nothing. That seemed even more of a mixed message.

They would like to have us over on April sixteenth. I guess that's the first time it will be convenient for them. She shrugged.

She lowered her eyes finally to the stack of videos I'd handed her. I'm in the mood for something a little... quieter than 'Die Hard', I think, she said, and went back to her contemplation. Finally she handed me When Harry Met Sally.

I put the tape in the player and the rest of the movies back in the cabinet. Kristy scooted towards the pillowed end of the bed and lay back against one big stack of pillows and patted the stack next to her. She picked up a couple of bulky remote controls and got the TV on and the movie started.

We both said Someday! when Meg Ryan did, complete with laughter and snuggled closer together. When it came time for the New Year's Eve kiss, Kristy and I started kissing and missed the end of the movie entirely. There really wasn't much left and we'd clearly both seen it often before.

When the tape automatically rewound itself and the TV went dark, we paid it no mind. Kristy was soft and warm in my arms, and there was something magical about her screen-hidden bed and her secret getaway hidden in plain sight. It was profoundly satisfying for me, and I think for her too. Don't all men like to think their women never fake? But it felt real, the passion and the emotion.

I held Kristy for a long time; almost too long. I caught a glance of her bedside clock. I groaned in my mind, but not out loud. I didn't want to move. But the fact of the matter was that it was after ten and I had a complicated system of bus routes to navigate to get home; and I did have to go home: I was teaching in the morning.

A groan escaped me despite my intentions. Kristy, I really hate to say this. But I have to go home and I have to leave as soon as I can. Buses. School. All that jazz. I had my sincere face on. I have no idea how it looks; if I try it in the mirror it looks goofy. I would much rather hold you in my arms all night, but I really have to get going as soon as possible.

Kristy looked a little disappointed, but she had lived in San Francisco all her life and also knew where I lived. She knew there was no way around the truth of what I'd said. She slipped out of bed and pulled on a very not-Japanese thick cozy robe and excused herself to the bathroom while I dressed. She wasn't in there long, but I was moving fast and when she came out I was already in the foyer, putting on my shoes, I put my jacket on as well and then reached for her.

We had a wonderful kiss, maybe the best one yet, lasting long enough that I had to remind myself that I had to leave. I had a wonderful time. Everything was fantastic. I heard my words and blushed a little, hoping she couldn't see it. Kristy was very pleased by the compliment, however.

A much quicker kiss and I said goodbye.

Goodbye, Joe, she said, giving me a look I could tell was just fraught. That's right, I said just fraught. Fraught with what, I couldn't say, but it was one fraught look. It had me thinking all the way down the street.

She had revealed more of herself tonight than in all the rest of the time we'd been together. I wondered if I had passed some test to be brought to this level, or if this level itself was a test. Then I considered that I might be paranoid about tests.

And that look! What did it mean? It seemed to tug at my belly button. Or maybe it was my heart. Maybe this girl really is special. Maybe she really thinks I'm special.

My mind was full of fresh memory and speculation while my body navigated me through the bus routes home. I got ready for bed in the same sort of absent daze, knowing I would be tired the next day. In my dreams St. Patrick was arguing with Kristy over steaming hot tempura.

Thursday April 16, 1992

Spring sprung in its usual soggy way that year and it was a month later before I knew it. I was done with my teaching job by four and when I got home I saw that the Sunshine Line was well out to sea. What a special night this would be, with a full moon and clear skies. I wished I could conjure up some sort of massive power outage to cut out the light pollution so I could enjoy it all the more.

I opened my door and was greeted with a hiss and the disappearing tail of my cat Fluffy. He probably thought I was an intruder. Everybody seems to be afraid of the big lug, even Kristy who was, she said, raised with cats. I told