Planes arrived and departed. People hurried though metal detectors, past bookstores, pizza joints, and duty free shops. The floor (freshly waxed in the early morning hours) was soiled with mud tracked in by travelers and loved ones. Static filled voices declared late arrivals and last calls for boarding.

Philip Lowell, oblivious to the hustle of the airport, finished his second Jack & Coke (tall, he would say, I always order them tall) and tapped his glass.

Philip said, half to himself and half to the man in the flight attendant uniform, "Sometimes I wish I was gay. You ever do that? Just look in the mirror and think that life would be easier if you were gay."

"Gay?"

"Yeah, gay. You know, a homosexual. A butt pirate. A Moe. It'd be great. Except for the sex. I'm not into that."

"What are you talking about, sir?"

"Do I look that old?" Philip extended his hand, "Philip, Philip Lowell."

The flight attendant shook like a sissy, clammy and soft.

"All I'm saying is that gays have it easy. I mean, they don't have to work any foreign tools if you know what I mean. You can sit down and watch the game. Build stuff. You already have something in common. See, I'm meeting my wife for the first time. That's why I'm here. I'm not some asshole that gets liquored up to get on a plane. Not me. I love to fly, always have. In forty-eight minutes, her plane lands and we're getting hitched."

"Congrats."

"Look buddy, I didn't mean to offend you with that gay stuff. It's great if you're a fag. I mean, homosexual. You can do what ever you want. I'm ok, you're ok. Right?"

The flight attendant slid a dollar across the bar and walked out.

"What's eating him? Hey, can I get another? Please."

Philip whistled the jingle from his latest masterpiece. Salano's Pizza, home of the big slice. A catchy little ditty from the thirty-second spot he'd finished this afternoon. It was only radio, but he had to keep his chops up. Philip wrote script and Al did the tunes. They made a good pair. The audiophiles were better than the tapeheads. The sound-editing booth was crammed with reels and reels of perverse samples. Women grunting. Fart noises. An outtake of cartoon characters cussing. Zoinks, Fred, what a huge cock you have. I got your Scooby snack right here. Two people (Al swears it's him and his twenty-year old girlfriend) screwing their brains out. Flesh slapping flesh.

Philip got his start in radio spots. 1975. He was Phil back then. Fresh out of college. Work all day. Drink at the Chicago at night, listening to the cover band du jour. Early Stones, the Kinks, Dylan, Faces, Richard Thompson. Phil met Amy at the Chicago. No tits, but a great ass.

A year later they were married. In three more, they were divorced. She'd found God and spent every night at Bible study. When she got home, she'd admonish him. Telling him to quit drinking. Quit smoking pot. Quit the cocaine. He only snorted once. Once. But still, she harassed him about it. Jesus this and Jesus that. Don't Don't Don't.

Last Philip heard was that she married a Jesus Freak and pushed out a slew of homeschooled children. But, she was a great lay. Philip still missed the wet fruity smell of her freshly washed hair on his pillow.

Philip's drink finally came. It was watery, like the others.

He fumbled for the pack of cigarettes. It was full except for one. He'd quit two years ago, but the impending arrival of Dasha broke his will. He was sitting in the only smoking venue in Epply Airport. The Big Red Huddle. Last bastion of free will. He exhaled a plume of white smoke that dissipated around the low hanging chandelier. Someone tapped his shoulder.

"Can I bum a match?"

It was a kid. Maybe twenty. "You old enough to smoke?"

"Yep."

"Here you go." Philip struck the match, breathing in sulfur, and held the flame near the kid's face.

"Thanks."

"Going somewhere?"

"Boston."

"What for-- a girl."

"Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Kim. What about you?"

"I'm just waiting on a friend." It was a bad Mick Jagger impression.

"A girl I suppose?"

"Not just a girl-- my fiance."

"So, you're in love."

"I've never met her, she's from Russia."

The kid pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "From Russia? You're never met her, and you're going to marry her?"

"Yep."

"Without finding out if you like her?"

"I'll know for sure in-- thirty-four minutes."

"How'd you find her or whatever?"

Philip played with his stirring straw. "It's-- well-- a service. Provided by a multi-national corporation."

"She's a Russian hooker?"

"Not a hooker. Russian."

"But, she's coming to marry you?"

"Yep."

The conversation stopped. A group of businessmen gathered around a table behind them. The men laughed about their impending deal with a South Korean telecommunications firm. It's going to make us fucking rich. You said it. Here's to Dom and Corvettes. And those slant-eyed motherfuckers!

The kid crushed his cigarette in a clear glass ashtray. "Have you talked?"

"Once. The time change made it weird. I was pretty tired."

"She speaks English?"

"Kind of-- She sounds like a spy from a Bond movie." Philip crushed his cigarette out. "Broken, but a hot accent."

"You love her?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"You're getting married."

"And?"

"Well-- Everything."

"Look kid, when you get to be my age, love ceases to matter as much."

"What?"

"I mean that-- its like-- you have these needs and your hand can't meet them. You know?"

"You're twisted."

"When I was a kid. Your age. I was the shit. Superman. Fucking Thor. Now, I'm Philip. Middle-aged commercial guy. Mjollnir ain't what it used to be. So, you take it anyway it comes."

"Or, you buy it."

"She needs an escape. A way out. She gets that, and I get bonafide, grade A, number one pussy. Straight from Russia. Land of commies, Vodka, that old drunk fuck, and the dude with the shit stain on his head. The one hawking Pizza Hut. I wished I thought of using him to sell fucking pizzas. Goddammit. Paris-fucking-stroke-me"

"That's paying for it."

"No. It's an exchange of goods. A free market. Capitalism at it's finest. I get her. She gets the mall, free speech, and unlimited access to guns. Fair trade. The invisible hand stops jerking me off."

The kid swished his drink. "That's a rationalization."

"You're Sigmund fucking Freud, now."

"No, all I'm saying is that you have a glorified whore going to marry you."

"What's the harm-- She gets something, and I get something. Win-win."

"No. She's selling herself. Plain and simple."

"Look, I not forcing her to do anything. Not a thing. She's making a choice."

"You're exploiting a situation beyond her control."

"She's going to marry me in less than twenty-four hours. If you want to protest, spill you guts at the Śforever hold your peace' time. Or else, fly to Boston and screw the brains out of that girl of yours before she tries her newfound college liberation on the first smooth talking frat boy she shares a beer bong with."

The kid turned and walked away. He was too young. Too idealistic to argue the finer points of relationships. A sucker.

Philip finished his drink. That was two. He'd told himself in the mirror that morning that he could have three drinks while waiting for her. One to relax. One to pass the time. And one to make sure that he went through with it. More than that and he would be a blathering drunk when he met Dasha. Be on your best behavior. Make a good impression.

What was the name of that internet site? Philip couldn't remember. www.international.com? Maybe that was it? www.womenoftheworld.com. Some soft-core site. A chatroom filled with men posing as women and some dude trying his damnedest not to think that the hands on the other end of a seamless fiber optic large intestine had hair on his knuckles.

It had been a Thursday night. Philip spent the last fourteen hours in the controlroom mixing a forty-five second attack ad. Seventy takes of some woman's voice. That's too aggressive. Too submissive. Too informed. Too Republican. Too Sexy. That one was a stretch. It's hard to make a recitation of some schmuck's voting record sound sexy. But hey, the handler was footing the bill. Philip just recycled the tape. Take seventeenŠ rollingŠ Record. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Record.

Philip craved the silence of home. A quiet undisturbed by voices. Bass, treble, simul-sync, all gone. Sound proof. Maybe the hum of the current powering the CPU. The heat flipping on and off. But no voices. Beautiful egg-shell soundproofing in the walls.

When he finally got home, the battery of the fire alarm was low. Beep, beep, beep. Philip ripped the cream colored disk from the ceiling and dropped it in the plastic lined recycling tub. He fixed himself a pot of coffee to chase a shot of Jack Daniel's and sat in from of the computer.

He wasn't exactly fond of surfing the world wide web, but it beat paying sixty bucks a month for seventy channels of garbage on Cox Cable.

An advertisement featuring a dark skinned beauty (remarkably shaped like Amy) piqued his attention. A Brazilian goddess in a g-string. Canary yellow covering bronze skin. He clicked on girl's stomach.

He was transported via the miracle of late twentieth century point and click technology into the virtual landscape of exotic women. Chat live with the Internet's most beautiful women. Selected from thousands of applicants. Pick your nationality. She'll fulfill your every desire for $19.98 per month. Visa and MasterCard accepted. Webcam. Thumbnail gallery. Chatroom. Extensive archive of original photos. Erotic stories.

Philip was hooked. He unfurled his leather tri-fold wallet, removed the appropriate card (the one with the fixed 7.9% APR), typed in the numbers, and clicked "send encoded message."

The waiting nearly killed him.

Finally, he entered the site. The forbidden zone. Restricted access. Members only. Select country of origin. The choices mesmerized him. Nubian princess from Ghana. Senoritas from Mexico. Sub-Saharan sweeties. Peruvian primetime. Nordic beauties. California girls. His options were unbounded.

He chose the photo of a Russian teenager in a mid-riff red T-shirt with CCCP written in yellow across her chest. She wore a smile and white underwear. There was something about her. Cropped black hair. Milky skin. Perky breasts. Part gymnast, part nymph. All babe.

A list of names appeared next to a series of pixeled images. These hotties are online NOW. He chose the one most resembling the CCCP girl. Dasha.

What's your name? (The words appeared as if by magic.)

Philip?

How old are you?

45, and you?

19.

What are you wearing?

It's cold in Russia, but I am hot. I am in my bra and panties.

What color?

White like the snow.

Is it snowing there?

We could melt the snow.

But really, is it snowing there?

It is always snowing here. Could you warm me up?

In the next hour, Philip explored his most erotic fantasies, picturing Nadia, the little pixie from the Olympics of his youth. The parallel bars. The balance beam. Dasha, the "real" girl on the other end of the keyboard (Philip was half-sure it was a guy named Boris in a furry hat with a gold star in the middle) told him about her life in Russia. She wouldn't tell him what town she lived in. Philip interrogated her, but she never caved. Name, rank and serial number. Just like a good solider.

Philip met her online over the next few weeks. Hinting that she should come to America-- Omaha to be specific. The mid-west. The heartland. She avoided the question.

Then, one night, she caved.

I will come on one condition.

Anything.

We get married.

Married?

Yes.

Are you sure?

Yes.

When will you come?

I can't afford the flight.

I can.

Philip's reflection in the giant mirror behind the bar looked fake, a scattered collection of features and characteristics. Receding black hair. Freshly shaved and aftershaved face.

Flight 217 from Detroit now arriving at gate 11.

He was older but not distinguished. Splashes of gray hair. Haircuts, combovers, sideburns, nothing could make it look polished. Not like Philip's father. Dad's hair lightened as he aged. Graying in an unmistakable look that said grace, confidence.

He swallowed the last of his watery drink and chomped the remaining hunks of melting ice cubes. Eighteen minutes to destiny.

"One more for the road buddy?" The bartender was already refilling his glass.

What the hell, he thought, one more to celebrate my last minutes as a single man.

The bartender tipped the liquor into glass and shot fizzy Coke from a plastic nozzle with eight buttons. Philip wondered how high the spout would reach if he nabbed the device and sprayed carbonated liquid across the bar.

The TV flashed the latest report from Wall Street. The Dow Jones Industrial Average is up 97 points thanks in part to strong consumer confidence. The Dollar is up on the Japanese Yen and slightly lower against the Mark.

Two years ago, Philip bought Stocks Made Simple: Market Guru Kenneth Strand's Guide to Global Markets and Emerging Nations, or Make the Market Work for You. Energized after reading about bull markets and stock splits, Philip invested his meager savings in a biotech firm with a snazzy portfolio featuring full color layouts of white men in suits hand selecting herbs from a tropical rainforest. A black man in a loincloth served as their guide. He'd netted $6.73 thus far, but still hoped for his big break.

Philip's fourth and final drink arrived without pomp and circumstance. He tilted his glass toward his reflection in the mirror.

A woman in a matching charcoal blazer and skirt sat next to him and ordered a vodka and cranberry juice. Her face was heavily made up. Two tiny strands of black hair poked through her rouged chin. Philip tried not to stare, but the precise application of make-up marred by such an insignificant blemish highlighted the absurdity of fighting the march to middle-age.

She wasn't ugly, despite the hair on her chinny-chin chin and the dark roots lurking beneath her frosted hair. She lit a long thin cigarette.

"Waiting for a plane?" Philip lit a smoke of his own.

She nodded. "I'm going home."

"Where's that?"

"Baltimore."

"Why are you in Omaha?"

"Business-- Look, I'm not interested. I just want to get home to my kids."

He fumbled for his drink. "No-- I just was killing time. I mean you're married, and I'm getting married. I'm waiting for her to get home."

"I'm not married."

"Sorry, I didn't mean toŠ"

"Drop it ok."

"So, what's your business?"

"I'm a professor. Do you have nothing better to do than harass people at the only smoking lounge in the whole airport?"

"Jesus Christ. What's up your ass?"

"I've had a bad week." She checked her watch. "If you insist on pestering me. Please limit your profanity."

"You don't like the way I talk?"

"I find your reference to Jesus offensive."

Great, another Jesus freak. Philip turned toward the television above the bar. A preview of the upcoming Husker game. Maybe I should take Dasha to a game? he thought. Give her a taste of the state.

She said, "No more witty statements?"

"I thought we'd finished this conversation. I offended you, remember."

"Can't you speak without offending me?"

"Don't preach to me."

"When did I ever preach?"

"I figured you were going to start."

"Do you want me to?"

"Hell no."

"My beliefs offend you, don't they?"

"I'd rather not talk about this."

"I'm sorry you have such a problem with adult conversation."

"I don't have a problem. You can't handle what I think."

"About God?"

"There is no God. There is no path."

"You don't ever pray? Or ever wonder if you're right? Got life figured out?"

"I get by."

"Say you get lung cancer, do you pray? On your deathbed, do you confess your sins? Make atonement."

Philip took a pull from his drink and said, "I look for the first girl that wants to give a dying man his last wish."

"You have no shame."

"If you have so much faith why are you drinking vodka in the afternoon? Next you'll slip into the bathroom and dope yourself on Dramamine or Quaaludes to forget you fear of flying. God won't save you in that plane. Only the probability that a pilot with years of training and experience can fly and land a plane. It's math. Random Number Theory. There's no higher power, just percentages."

"God does not play dice with the universe."

"Then he's asleep at the wheel."

"I feel sorry for your fiance"

She tossed back her drink and walked toward the terminal.

Philip checked his watch. Seven minutes.

He gulped the last of his Jack & Coke.

Philip imagined his bearded face in the mirror. Surrounded by twelve disciples. Breaking bread before his last night on earth. His friend with the clean-shaven angular chin selling him out for a few coins. The cops seizing him for loitering in a public space. A garden filled with flowers and trees waiting to bloom in the early days of spring. The chill of a callused hand on his bare shoulder, leading his to death and humiliation. Wanting to plunge a steak knife into the heart of the traitor.

Flight 677 from La Guardia now arriving at gate six.

Shit, she's early, he thought, and paid for his last drink with a crisp ten-dollar bill.

Along the glossy tile of the airport, Philip saw his reflection. Extended and disfigured under the fluorescent lights and waxed linoleum. He paused, soaked in his grotesque counterpart, and stumbled into the carpeted waiting area, ready for his wife to disembark.

Matt Oberst lives in North Carolina and plays in Sorry About Dresden.