The chemistry between us felt kinetic before we even spoke. Body language speaks in ways which words cannot ... and Karla’s flirtatious non-communicative cues sang a siren’s song that lured my gaze like a fish to a hook.
Naturally, this was before I knew that Karla was a homeless tweaker, but we’ll circle back to that later.
Sharing eye contact with an attractive stranger is one of life’s simplest pleasures.
In a world where most peoples’ eyes are glued to their phones, it’s reassuring to feel seen by someone. Especially by a pretty someone during your tiresome, morning Caltrain commute.
Beauty is subjective however and your presumed allurement could be purely fantasy. Either way, I took my chances.
“Where ya headed?” I asked.
“Getting off at Diridon,” she said. “What about you?”
“Same,” I said.
We spoke for nearly 10 minutes and almost missed our stop because of how well we’d hit it off.
“It was nice meeting you,” Karla said as she stepped off the train. Too shy to ask for her number, I waved goodbye and we parted ways.
The Uber I’d ordered was already waiting for me in front of the station. Right before I entered the vehicle, I noticed Karla heading to the nearby bus stop.
“Screw it.” I thought, “ What’s the worst that could happen?”
Little did I realize the worst was yet to come. I apprehensively approached her and asked for her number.
“I’m not sure ... ” Karla said. “My ex-boyfriend said he’d beat the shit out of anyone I try to date.”
“Well,” I said. “How about you don’t tell him?”
Looking as if my proposal hadn’t even crossed her mind, she surveyed me top to bottom.
“You got a pen?” Karla said.
A good journalist should always have a pen. Not to hit on train station strangers, but nevertheless, I didn’t.
“Don’t worry,” Karla said.
She pulled a tube of mascara from her purse, wrote her number on the back of a crinkled 7-Eleven receipt and handed it to me.
Mind you, Karla was blocking the bus’ entryway this entire time.
“Hurry up lady!” said the surly bus driver.
The bus’ folding doors hissed shut on Karla’s face as it left the station.
I sprinted back to my Uber, unraveled the scrunched-up receipt and smiled the entire ride home.
We scheduled a date the following weekend and I couldn’t have been more excited. I was sincerely smitten.
The red flags that soon popped up came quicker than a game of Whac-A-Mole.
One of the red flags came from the three different cell phone numbers she used to text me.
I thought only drug dealers and Wall Street day traders used multiple phones.
To ensure that her ex-boyfriend didn't “beat my ass” I chose the Sunnyvale Caltrain station for our first date.
This way, I could scope out the area beforehand and make sure it’s not a setup. It just seemed fitting given our first encounter.
I nervously sat beside Karla after thoroughly surveying the station for pugnacious looking ex-boyfriends.
Sparks flew yet again and I thought to myself, “This is the one.”
“Do you smoke?” Karla said.
“I just quit actually, but I don’t mind if you do!” I said.
“No fool, not cigarettes,” she said.
“Ahhh you mean ‘Mary Jane’,” I said. “I’ve been sober for a couple of years now but by all means, do your thing.”
“I’m not talking about that either … ” she said.
Now, unless Karla had a raw rack of ribs hidden nearby, I finally understood what she was intending to smoke.
As realization dawned upon me, Karla reached into her bra and pulled out the biggest ball of meth I’d ever seen.
“I have to smoke it before I get back to the shelter,” she said. “They search me before entering.”
Gobsmacked and confused, I was rendered speechless.
Not only was my Caltrain cutie homeless, (which is not bad by any means, just a bit mind-boggling given the context), but she was also a meth-smoking tweaker.
I’d have preferred an ass-beating from her ex-boyfriend to the pain these sudden realizations inflicted on my heart.
I felt like a kid being told that Santa wasn’t real. Bellows of chemical-smelling smoke blew into my face as I snapped out of my silence.
“I have to go,” I said.
Karla put down her pipe and looked as confused as she was high.
Everybody has their dealbreakers and apparently, one of mine is meth-rock bottom.
So dear readers, before flirting with a stranger on a train, be forewarned that a Caltrain cutie could be nothing more than a pipe dream.
