Danielle

I accidentally took a train east instead of west today. When I realized my mistake, I hopped off at the next station. The particular station I found myself in is very small; it has no seating, no maps of the train line, and—save one girl who got off the same train I did—had no people. My plan was to wait for the next westbound train to come and ride back downtown. Trains should come every 15 minutes, I thought.

I had plans to meet someone downtown for dinner. I was sorry to keep him waiting, and texted him to say so. I looked around the station a little; most of the surrounding buildings were industrial structures of some kind. There was an abandoned apartment complex to one side and a neighborhood of less-than-inviting houses beside it. The wait began to feel long, and I stepped into the tracks to see farther down the line. No train.

I noticed the girl began to walk toward me. I noticed her because of the long, pleasant legs that carried her and the short denim shorts that showed them off. “Do you know the train schedule?” she called out, long before we were in conversational range.

I shook my head. “I think they come every fifteen minutes,” I replied.

“It’s been more than that already.” She was closer now. “Say, you got a lighter?” She pulled a bent cigarette from her pocket.

I laughed. “There’s a broken one on the track,” I said, pointing. She didn’t think it was funny, so I added, “No, sorry.” I debated telling her that I had recently quit, and that on a normal day I would still have a lighter—in spite of quitting—but none of it sounded true in my head, so I didn’t say it.

“Shit.” She studied my face a little. “You look like that guy…that gay blogger—what’s his name? Bon Iver? I think he’s gay.” I smiled. So did she. “No, I didn’t mean you look gay. You just look like him with the beard and glasses and all.”

“Really?” I asked, pretending to be interested. She grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth. At least a couple of teeth were broken or rotten. I tried not to stare at them.

“I think…” I started talking before I had anything to say. “People tend to think I look like anyone with a beard.”

She laughed. “No, you really do. Watch, you’ll look him up and be like, ‘oh, Danielle was right.’ I’m Danielle, by the way.” She extended her hand.

I smiled and took it. It was pleasant to the touch. “Luke.”

“Nice to meet you, Luke.”

There was a pause, and a Mexican construction worker walked into the station.

“I’m gonna see if he has a lighter,” she said, and started walking away. I watched her a moment. She had an attractive body. She got her cigarette lit and came back, but we didn’t seem to have anything to say to each other. I drank in her secondhand smoke happily, as ex-smokers do.

Finally a train came. Apparently, they only come to this station every thirty minutes instead of fifteen. It was nearly empty, and when I sat, Danielle came and sat across from me, without saying anything. She sat cross legged and played with her shoelaces.

At some point, a homeless-looking black man-- the only other person in the train car—began calling out in our general direction. Danielle looked at me. “He ain't talking to me. Is he talking to you?”

I liked the way she’d worded that. “Nope, he’s not talking to me either.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked.

“Actually, I am,” I answered. “Well, east county, anyway.”

She got excited. “I grew up in Lemon Grove!”

I smiled. “Spring Valley,” though it was only partly true.

“Oh!” She paused a moment, and looked downward nervously. “Do you live with your wife there?” Then, before I could answer, “Are you married?”

Now, I’d like to pause the story to give a little background. I have several brothers. My brothers and I like each other well enough, I suppose, but we seem to have trouble communicating. What we have found that works best is communicating through obscure movie quotes, because we basically watched the same fifteen movies over and over again for the twenty years that we grew up together. It’s become a hilarious game to us, now that we’re adults, to try to speak to each other only in this manner. The reason that this fact is relevant at this point is because our movie-quoting-turned-real-life-conversation will often spill into our conversations with other people. Collateral damage, if you will.

So, when Danielle asked me, “Are you married?” I answered without hesitation, and without a single consideration for the implications of my response, “Occasionally.”

Some of you may recognize this. It’s a quote from Jeff Goldblum’s character in Jurassic Park. I have not, in fact, ever been married, but I have been waiting for years for someone to ask me that question so that I may answer in this manner. In this case, however, I instantly regretted the word. When she looked confused, I mumbled, “Uh, not at the moment.”

She hesitated a second, but pressed on. “Can I get your phone number?”

I was still recovering from the embarrassment of the last exchange, but a series of ideas passed through my mind. How cool of a story would this be if we ended up together—that we met in a train station because we both took the wrong train? She certainly seemed to be a fun person, and she was pretty, too. I imagined kissing her, but could not get over her crooked, yellow teeth. I didn’t think that I could kiss that mouth.

Apparently my hesitation was too long for her. “If not, it’s cool. You don’t have to give it to me.”

I sunk a little, and shook my head. “Sorry. No.”

She nodded. “It’s cool. Thanks for being honest.” She stood up, and began to walk down to the other end of the train. I felt like I’d just clubbed a baby seal, and didn’t want her to go.

“Danielle,” I said, before she got too far. I read once that women appreciate it if you use their name when speaking to them. “Thanks for being forward.”

“Wait!” She exclaimed, “Wait, are you gay?” She suddenly became happily excited.

I should have said yes. I didn’t.

She was disappointed again. “Me and my goddamn vanity,” she muttered.

She sat at the other end of the train and got off at the next station.

Just one more thing for me to feel shitty about.

Oh, and I looked Bon Iver up. As far as I can tell, it's a band, not a blogger. I saw no indications of his sexuality, and he doesn't look like me, but he does have a beard.