A man on drugs with a limp dick can be very scary. He tried and cursed, then began to blame her, insisting he was soft because he wasn’t a homo.
And then he wanted her to top him. And then he wanted her to speak Chinese.
And then he pulled her hair and spat on her.
But at least he didn’t reinjure her ribs. And thank goodness, he wasn’t able to cum. Sometimes guys like this got crazy with trans girls after they came.
And, yes, thank goodness, he paid.
Katrina started the walk back to Evan’s. As she watched the cars go by, she tried to feel grateful. But gratitude was difficult. Yes, she had money for now, but she wasn’t stupid. Her ribs weren’t healing, and her hormones would run out in two weeks, a month if she stretched them.
If she stepped onto that road, what would be different? And why was she fighting, anyway? She just had sucked someone for money, after fucking someone else for rent. What made her so special that she should live?
But then, Katrina smelled food.
First, she smelled the sweet, almost citrusy smell of roast duck. Then the heavier warmth of BBQ pork. Chilis from a hot pot. Oyster sauce being stir-fried into a wok of raised noodles. Salted eggs in rice porridge, fried turnip cakes with diced leeks, ginger and green onion lo mein.
The many smells from the kitchens of all the small, bustling restaurants along the boulevard made her stomach growl, her mouth salivate.
She may not have had a reason to live. But here were plenty of wonderful reasons to eat.
Half an hour later, Katrina was sitting at a table with a bowl of pork belly noodle soup. The skin crackled on the outside of the pork, while the flesh oozed with fatty juices within. The noodles had the perfect bite, and the broth was glistening with the flavor of long-cooked bones.
A server came to check her teapot. Around her, the staff was serving, bussing, chopping, sweeping. A waiter used some leftover tea to wipe off a greasy table.
No stares, no judgment. No father yelling. She was eating a meal, and no one was mad or disappointed.
Katrina ate another wonton, then more pork belly. The customers at the other tables didn’t even notice her. Someone laughed at someone else’s joke. Someone was complaining that his grandson was not studying hard enough.
She felt strange. No, not strange.
Better.
When was the last time that she had felt better? She had food in her belly, money in her purse …
Her purse.
As if on its own volition, Katrina’s hand reached into her purse and retrieved a business card. It looked exactly as it had before. No smudges, no folds. Even the corners were crisp and sharp.
To look like this, after everything she had been through, seemed like a miracle. And the miracle’s name was Shizuka Satomi.
Katrina asked the server for the check, took out her phone, and opened Google Maps.
Where Katrina was from, only white people lived on hills. Other people, even the rich ones, usually just bought larger homes with bigger driveways to accommodate more cars, extended families, or both.
White people, on the other hand, grew uncomfortable when others looked down at them, so the rich ones preferred to roost in the heights.
Here, though, in these hills, were pickup trucks, not the shiny kind, but the kind that held lawn mowers. There were more families, more gardens. Yes, there was wealth—the BMWs and that large marble statue of Kuan Yin didn’t lie—but the yards were more likely to hold vegetables than fountains and lawns.
After thirty-five minutes of walking, she stood in front of a house. It was a house that had been cared for, immaculately, for years. Even the Jaguar in the driveway seemed calm and secure. In the front was a garden, with some bonsai, a persimmon tree, and a little stone path leading up to the front door.
Katrina could felt her breath and heartbeat quicken. Once she set foot on that path, knocked on that door, her life might change forever.
Then she heard footsteps and sharp steel.
The old lady had been harvesting beans. She looked at Katrina closely.
Katrina froze.
“You! Girl or boy?” the old lady asked gruffly.
In a panic, Katrina turned and rushed down the hill.
What was she doing here? What could she have been thinking? Evan wasn’t so bad, and it was only for a little while. She would figure out how to get less creepy work. She would find a way to do cam sessions.
She looked at her empty hands and cursed. Besides, only an idiot would visit a violin teacher without bringing a violin.
* * *
Another Saturday morning and not a word.
And also, not a sound. And this was bothering Shizuka more and more each day. Wherever she was, that girl had not played violin since that day in the park. If she had, Shizuka would have sensed it immediately.