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Three hours till dusk. I wandered without purpose through the open-air marketplace. Shops on my left and more shops on my right -- some with pull-down awnings, others with display tables out front, bearing wares that would have to be gathered-in before nightfall. I picked over items on tables and entered shops at random, not wanting to appear out of place. But I was bored.

I paused at an inconspicuous little storefront with a shed roof. Something about the place held me, transfixed. And feeling like I was turning my back forever on the marketplace behind me, I took one last look around -- the market seemed to go on forever in both directions -- and then I took the plunge. After this I'm going see if I can find my way out of this place. This is going to be my last stop, I assured myself.

Entering the little shop, noisy, was my first thought. Kids sat in chairs in front of TVs, playing video games. A smaller kid walked around, his face bent to a handheld game. Behind the counter, at the back, stood a little oriental man: his head down, reading a newspaper. He seemed unaffected by the electronic sounds and raucous laughter. The kids had four different gaming terminals -- all with games going, some two-player -- and they seemed to be having a good time. On tabletops, along the walls, were old vinyl records, some slightly used shoes, baseball cards, music players, Tonka trucks and tractors, and some potted plants -- these last hanging by each of the storefront's two screened-door entrances. I stumbled across a loose stack of what like music discs, but it appeared to be that smaller format. What was it called? MD, maybe. Without any real interest, but in that mode -- let us just call it the "yard-sailor's doldrums" -- I gathered up the discs and took them to the register. I asked the little man what they were.

For the first time since I'd been in there, he looked up from his reading. But his gaze didn't meet mine: it went out across the room.

"Hey you, kid. Come here," he said.

I followed his gaze and thought, Oh, hell. Here come the racial slurs.

The little black kid with the handheld game approached the counter. "It don't work no more," the kid said.

"Gimme here. Gimme," was the little man's reply.

Reluctantly, the kid handed it over.

With speed and efficiency, the storekeeper produced a small screwdriver and, with a flick of the wrist, off popped the game's back panel; out went the old batteries into trash, and in went the new. He handed the game back to the boy. A quick smile lit-up the boy's face. And he walked away, humming to himself.

I watched the kid for a moment too long, realizing subconsciously that something interesting had just transpired, but not quite sure what.

I turned back to the counter, dazedly, and was slightly startled to find the old man's gaze resting on me.

Stuttering, I said: "I was wondering..." I trailed off, showing him the small discs in my hand.

He looked at them. "You can play," he stated flatly and, with his right hand, indicated the closed door behind him. His oriental accent was thick: his English simple; his meaning unclear.

Again, he pointed at the door behind him and, repeating, said: "There, you can play."

Bewildered, I just decided to roll with it. Maybe the player for these discs lies just on the other side of that door, I thought. I came around the counter, to his side; I glanced at him, but he was already back to reading his paper; I took one last look at the kids in the store. They still seemed to be having a good time. I opened the door and stepped through.

I had entered a house -- that was teeming with life. The atmosphere was festive -- there was music -- but I couldn't be sure that a party was going on. I had left the little man behind me and was now exploring what was likely his home. I went from room to room, looking for a "player," having no idea about what my real purpose was for being there.

I passed two dark rooms on my left -- they felt like bedrooms. I opened a door on the right, revealing a closet. I continued down the hallway. The music was getting louder. The hallway spilled into a living room -- a red sofa dominated at center; warm red-and-yellow light imbued the room; and colorful multicultural decorations abounded. At the rear of the living room, I saw someone come in through a back door -- a shaft of harsh white light penetrated the room briefly -- and then the door was shut. After that, the room seemed dark. Dimly -- to the right of the back door, at yet another doorway -- I saw two people talking. The conversation soon ended and an apparition drifted leftward across the landing, in front of the back door, and down a short flight of steps into the living room. But instead of turning toward me, the person turned away and disappeared into a room at the far left corner of the house. Just before the apparition left my sight, I caught a flash of feminine red.

Returning to myself, I looked around the room for a stereo -- on which to play the discs that lay mostly forgotten in my hand. Mildly confused, the thread of "why" I was there slipping away, I decided to go into the room where I'd seen the person disappear.

I entered a kitchen. Two girls were talking at the island in the center; on it were dips, chips -- a salsa smell in the air -- lettuce, tomato, spices. Two young women smiled invitingly from their glasses of red punch. One wore a red dress -- Aha! -- it reminded me of a kimono -- the detailing -- there seemed to be dragons all over it. The other woman was dressed in a way that I was much more accustomed to -- typical modern Western young woman: black leather pants, white tank top with pink and blue horizontal stripes on it. Both women were attractive -- and they were oriental, mostly. I yelled, a bit excessively, over the music, and told them that the little man out front had invited me in and held up the discs as if this would explain everything. They looked at each other -- and laughed -- with me, at me, or something different. My confusion only deepened.

Finally, the one in red pointed behind me, to one of the bedrooms. I thanked her, nodded at the other girl, and left the room.

I entered a small bedroom, where an inflated vinyl mattress, fitted with a blue sheet, was the centerpiece. On the opposite wall ... was stereo unit. Circumnavigating the bed, I approached the stereo. There, I fumbled with the controls until, finally, the CD tray skated out. I inserted a disc. Moments later, music poured gently from the speakers.

And from the living room -- as though beckoned by the music -- an angel appeared. She was dressed in the customary white, but that's where custom ended. And a stimulating, belly-button revealing, short thing -- toga-like, skirt- and dress-like -- materialized and was burned into my retinas, for ever. Her suggestion of a smile pushed back my dimness and lit-up the room. She was medium to tallish in height, with dark hair and oriental features. Electricity, which now spanned the gap between us, tickled me. At the nape of my neck, hairs stood at attention.

With a hand on each hip, she broke the eternal silence: "What are you doing in here?"

I fumbled my explanation, attempting to convey to her that the man out front had sent me. To emphasize my point, I nodded and gestured toward the front of the house.

Realization dawned on her face and, lovingly, she said: "Oh-h-h, Fa-a-ther." And with this, the edges of her lips turned up slightly.

"Yes," I replied.

"Father" had invited me in to have a listen at the discs, I explained. She asked me to show her. I held out the remaining discs.

Feinting a blow to my abdomen with her left fist, she socked me in my chest with her right. Startled, I took a step backward, juggling the discs. Alarmingly fast, she closed the distance between us, her body spinning round, her back coming to rest against my chest. As she cocked her head in my direction, a devilish grin played across her face and she said: "Let's see what you've got there."

Weakly, meekly, I proffered what was in my -- now sweating -- hand. With long, delicate fingers, she lifted the stack from my hand, her black-painted, ornament-detailed fingernails brushing across my open palm. She approached the stereo, removed the disc that was already playing, and replaced it with the one in her hand. A beautiful instrumental -- Vangelis's L'Enfant -- oozed from the speakers. Slowly, she turned around and faced me. Taking the initiative, I closed the distance between us. She took my hands in hers, and we started to move. Our movement became a waltz. And the mattress at room's center became an obstacle, as we danced vigorously, yet clumsily, around it.

After a half dozen circuits around the mattress, we exited to the kitchen.

Introductions all around -- the two girls were her sisters. As I sampled the chips and homemade salsa, I was handed a fleshly-blended margarita made from the good stuff -- some Cuervo 1800. Drink in hand, we resumed our dance and sashayed into the warm red-yellow glow of tshe living room. Sitting side by side on the red sofa, I took in everything for -- what seemed like -- the first time: red dragons hanging from the ceiling and flying along the walls ... the dark-stained hardwood floor ... what looked like an arrangement for a still-life painting on a table at the far wall ... to my left, the fireplace, hearth and mantle ... a thin stereo unit sat atop the mantle ... over the mantle was a framed painting of goldfish ... the totality was an atmosphere of uninterrupted year-round festivities. Music wafted through the timbers of the living room's high ceiling.

She led me up the steps, across the landing, by the back door, toward a bedroom.

It was She I had glimpsed upon my first entering the living room; She had been here talking to her sister, the one in the red kimono dress -- I had to reach way back in my mind for this particular memory, as if it were already a decade in the past.

We entered her spacious bedroom -- bed at back-center; a walnut dressing table, with mirror, on the wall to my right; white dressers with a landscape painting over them, to my left. Beyond the dressing table was an entrance to a walk-in closet; it was through this doorway that she vanished. As I took a few steps toward the closet, I noticed that -- inside -- there were tall shelves at room-center, which stood independent of walls. The closet was lit by natural sunlight that seemed to come from the ceiling. As I leaned closer to discern its source, out of the closet she came, wearing only white-lace panties and a matching bra. In her hand, she held blue jeans and a white, naturally-rumpled sackcloth shirt. Smiling, she plopped down on the edge of her bed and dressed quickly; glanced in the dresser mirror, touching up the curls in her hair with a brush; and, with my arm in hers, out the back door we went.

The day was nearly over, sunset a mere hour away. Jets, taking off out of the west, roared overhead.

Her father -- the little oriental man from the store out front -- tended his new arrivals, watering them on their shelves in a metal rack. Nearly the entire backyard was a garden -- produce, herbs and flowers -- though no rows could be discerned. The black metal rack stood monolithically -- lone as the little man. A few trees dotted the edge of the yard: a magnolia and three tall poplars. In the direction of the airport, the yard terminated at a corner of fencing, just past a knoll where square patches of inch-high herbs grew. Beyond their property line was miles of plowed flatland -- a place for crops, it seemed. The red sun peeked through clouds that were peach, aqua-blue and dark-magenta in color.

I approached her father, watching him tend his brood of sapling plants. Another commercial jet roared overhead and, without looking up, he said: "Those planes are the only thing that I sometimes don't like about this place."

Much the same as the coming night was inevitable -- and its way -- a calm and peace stole over me, settling lightly like a favorite down comforter. The evening air was warm, and the setting sun was now buried deep in the clouds at the base of the western sky.

I turned my back to the sun, to look at their home -- a brown structure -- cedar roofing, siding and trim. I stepped backward and took in: the little man to my left, bent to his metal rack; the house to middle-right; a seven-foot-high, wood-paneled privacy fence at my far-left and far-right. I backed up some more and abruptly sensed something soft -- like moss -- under foot. Looking down, I saw crushed herbs under my feet. I glanced over at the little man, but his attention seemed to be on his plants. I looked at his daughter -- the new light in my life -- and she stared back, smiling. She did it in that way that was fast-becoming familiar to me -- what would later be termed: her gentle, all-knowing smile.

She approached me, turned her back to the sunset, took my hand in hers, and we both fell backward, into the tender embrace of her father's garden.

At this small sound, her father glanced backward, in our direction. But his expression did not change -- his face kept its look of contentment -- and he returned immediately to what he had been doing.

My mind at ease, I looked upward, where she was already looking. On our backs, we took in the clouds -- whitish, reddish, and charcoal-colored -- but mostly the sky overhead was a dark blue. The first star of the night twinkled across the eons at us. She and I laying in this soft, warm bed. The smell of freshly-turned earth in our noses. The occasional underbelly of a 747 coming across our view. My hand in hers. Life ... was good.

THE END