The Flea Market in Barcelona, Spain has always intrigued me. I never fail to spend an afternoon there whenever I visit that lovely country. I enjoy finding some obsolete "thing" and haggling over its price with the vendor. Last year, when I was there, I found an old discarded diary that was ready for the scrap pile. The notations in it were made by a young sensuous woman over the period of two years: 1950—1952. I felt like a voyeur reading it but her day-to-day notations in it were so fascinatingly lustful that I was compelled to write a story about her. This then, — using her notes in the diary as a guideline — is the tragic love story of that very passionate young woman. Harry Harris