The Locksmith

I didn't mean to spend my first date with Sarah breaking into houses, but that's exactly what happened. It started normally enough – coffee at a small café in San Francisco's Hayes Valley. She was a locksmith, she told me over her cappuccino. I thought she meant she worked at a hardware store making keys. Keys have always fascinated me, it's as if that piece of metal unlocks worlds that didn't exist before.

"Not exactly," she said, studying me with sharp green eyes. "I'm more of a security consultant. I help people understand how vulnerable their locks really are."

Before I could ask what that meant, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned, then looked up at me apologetically. "I have an emergency call. A woman is locked out of her house in Pacific Heights. Want to see what I really do?"

Twenty minutes later, we stood before a Victorian mansion. Sarah had changed from her coffee date outfit into coveralls, her red hair now hidden under a baseball cap with a locksmith company logo. She pulled a black canvas case from her truck and approached the front door.

"Watch for neighbors," she said, kneeling before the lock. "They get nervous when they see someone picking locks, even if it's legitimate."

I played lookout, trying to appear casual while she worked. Her hands moved with practiced precision, tools glinting in the afternoon sun. Within minutes, there was a click and the door swung open.

"That's a $300 deadbolt," she said, standing and brushing off her knees. "Took less than two minutes to defeat."

No one answered our calls inside the house. Sarah's frown deepened as she checked her phone again.

"Something's wrong," she said. "The callback number is disconnected, and the payment was made with a stolen credit card."

Just then, we heard footsteps upstairs.

What had started as a coffee date was about to become something very different.

"Call the police," Sarah whispered, already moving toward the stairs. "But stay on the line and follow me. I need a witness."

I did as she asked, heart pounding as we climbed the stairs. The footsteps had stopped, but a window creaked somewhere above us.

The master bedroom was a mess – drawers pulled out, jewelry box overturned. Through the open window, we caught a glimpse of someone climbing down a drain pipe.

Sarah moved faster than I thought possible, vaulting through the window onto a small balcony. By the time I reached the window, she was halfway down the drain pipe herself, pursuing the burglar with the fluid confidence of someone who climbed buildings professionally.

"He's heading east on Jackson!" I reported to the 911 dispatcher, watching from above as Sarah chased the man down the street. "Female security consultant in pursuit!"

What happened next became a blur of running and shouting. The burglar – apparently not expecting to be chased by a locksmith – made the mistake of turning into a dead-end alley. When I caught up, Sarah had him cornered, holding him at bay with nothing but a lock pick and sheer nerve.

The police arrived minutes later. The man was a known burglar who specialized in hiring locksmiths with stolen credit cards to unknowingly help him break into houses. He'd been doing it for months.

"Most locksmiths just unlock and leave," Sarah explained later, as we gave our statements. "He counted on that. Didn't expect one to stick around and check."

It was nearly sunset by the time we finished with the police. We stood awkwardly on the sidewalk, covered in dust from the chase, still processing what had happened.

"So," I said finally, "this is a pretty typical workday for you?"

She laughed. "Usually less running. Mostly I test security systems for banks and tech companies. Help them find vulnerabilities before the bad guys do."

"And the drain pipe climbing?"

"Rock climbing hobby. Comes in handy sometimes." She paused, studying me again with those sharp eyes. "Most guys would have run the other way when things got weird."

"I figured anyone who can pick a lock that fast is someone worth getting to know better."

"Even after all this?"

"Especially after all this."

She smiled. "There's a good burger place around the corner. I could eat. And I have some great stories about the weird things people do with locks."

Over burgers and beer, Sarah told me about the time she had to break into a circus trailer to rescue a trapped tiger, and how she once helped the FBI catch a ring of art thieves by identifying their lock-picking patterns. Each story was more incredible than the last, but after what I'd witnessed, I believed them all.

We dated for six months after that. It didn't work out in the end – her work took her traveling too often, and I couldn't keep up with her adrenaline-junkie lifestyle. But that first date taught me something important: sometimes the best stories come from letting go of expectations and just following where the day leads.

I still have the lock picking set she gave me as a parting gift. "For emergencies," she'd said with a wink. I've never used it, but I keep it as a reminder that you never really know where a simple coffee date might take you.

The last I heard, Sarah was consulting for a major security firm in Dubai, probably climbing something very tall and teaching very rich people how not to get robbed. Sometimes I see news stories about sophisticated security systems being tested or high-tech burglaries being thwarted, and I wonder if she's involved.

But mostly, I think about that moment in the Victorian house, watching her piece together what was happening while everyone else would have simply walked away. How she could have called the police right then and avoided the whole chase, but instead chose to pursue justice herself, with nothing but skill and nerve on her side.

They say you never forget your first love. I never forgot my first locksmith either.