I opened my eyes, looked around.  I stood in a stuffy phone booth, reminiscent of Doctor Who's Tardis.  I held my hand out in front of my nose, but my vision was clear as crystal, with no hazy edges around the edges, implying I was lost in the realm of my subconscious.

Laying a shaking hand on the door handle, I opened up the booth, flooding the prism with sunlight, and stepped out into the English spring day.  For that's where I had touched down- London, in the Kensington borough, to be more precise.  The air was cool and moist; I could get away with my blue jean vest and white slacks here. 

Turning, my heart soared.  The organization was as good as their word.  For there, across the street, was the target.  Kensington Market, an integral part of the band's history.

It worked, I said to myself.  I can't believe it.  I'm really here.

But I didn't marvel at the miracle that had just transpired for long.  The special e-contact I was wearing in my left eye reminded me that I had nineteen minutes and thirty-four seconds remaining.

Less than twenty minutes to find Freddie. 

I took a deep breath, slowly let it out through my mouth. 

Go.

With that I darted toward the market, making a few drivers very unhappy as I sprinted out in front of them.  But I had no time for social graces.  Within nineteen minutes (even less than that now), the organization would bring me home, and I would never again have this chance.  This was a once in a lifetime opportunity- once in a million lifetimes. 

I burst into Kensington Market, made myself slow to a casual walk.  I could draw no attention to myself, not even in the interest of time.

I knew the risks.  I knew the slim odds.  The organization had not guaranteed that he would be there.  It was anybody's guess if either Roger or Freddie would even be running the market stall- or if the stall even existed by this point.  Just about everything about this venture was a roll of the dice, a shot in the dark, except the year.  I chose 1970 for a simple reason; he wasn't famous, and Queen, as he and Bri, Rog, and (eventually) John would come to be known, had yet to be fully conceived.  This way, my chances were improved that I would at least come within earshot of the man without fear of being trampled or shrugged off as just another fan come for an autograph. 

By this point, surely he and Mary were already acquainted, but that was fine by me.  I had not come here with the intent of tackling him to the ground and getting busy with him on the floor of the Market.

I just wanted to see him with my own eyes.

But should I find him?  What then, you might ask?

Oh, I had all sorts of scenarios planned out in my mind.  Breathless, half-rehearsed lines flew through my brain even now while my eyes searched the stalls frantically for a familiar face.  What would I say?  What COULD I say, that wouldn't be ridiculous, or fawning?  Would I trip over myself trying to praise him in all the clever ways I'd wished to do over the years? Or would I settle for simply a hello?

Would I kiss him? Could I be so presumptuous as that?

Would I simply stop in my tracks, watch him from a distance, content to be an unnoticed part of the scenery while his life ran its set, immovable course?

Or, more accurately, would I fail altogether, and turn this impossible occurrence into a wasted opportunity?

I had randomly selected this spring day in 1970, knowing I would most likely come away unsuccessful. For me, though, just to breathe the same air as the Persian Poppinjay, and know that somewhere in this same city he was alive and well, were solid marks of a successful venture all by themselves.

As the minutes passed, and my time window grew shorter and shorter, I thought less about what I planned to do and more about finding the damn stall to begin with.  It was like searching for the needle in a haystack.  The place was packed to the rafters with merchandise, sellers, and prospective buyers.  I would need at least two minutes to get back to the phone booth in order to slide away again, unnoticed. 

The clock was ticking, and I was getting frustrated.  Until finally-

"Twenty fifty-two." A voice cut through my thoughts- but not just any voice. 

It was raspy, and high. 

And familiar.

On instinct I whirled, and found myself staring at a pair of round blue eyes under a mop of tousled, golden hair.  There stood a young Roger Taylor, counting out the wad of money a gentleman had just handed him - I assume for the jacket draped over his arm.  Without thinking I gasped- and had to take a few seconds to regroup.

The customer took his change and thanked Roger, nudging past me as he moved leisurely toward the stall by the door.

And then out of nowhere, Roger turned to me and crowed, "And how can I help you?"

"Uh- hi, sir," I managed.  Why I called him "sir" is beyond me; perhaps it's because where I come from, he is now a jolly-looking Santa Claus fellow, complete with the twinkling eyes and the white beard.

"Sir," he grumbled, shaking his head.  "Well, I suppose it is better than the other, after all."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."  The boy (odd, that I should see Roger Taylor this way, but he couldn't have been much more than twenty-one years old at this time) blinked, took a step closer.  "You look a bit shaken.  Are you all right?"

"Yes," I nodded.  Finally I looked past him at his market stall.  THE stall, the one I'd been searching for.  Partners in Crime.  I had found it, in all its storied glory, complete with the meager racks of second-hand clothes at somewhat bloated prices.  Here was Roger, there was the sign, here was the scene of the crime.

The only thing missing was Freddie.

"Were we looking for anything in particular?" he asked.

"Um, no.  What- what do you have?"

Roger gave me a once-over, the pretty little mouth curving into a pretty little grin.  "I've got this lovely red top, just got it in yesterday, care to give it a look?"

Before I could say no, Roger started pushing through the hung up clothes till he finally drew the top out and showed it to me.  "You like that?" he asked.

It was pretty, true- but I had no legal tender with which to shop, and I had been told more than once that I could bring nothing back home with me.  "I do, but - uh, I don't know if it'll fit right-"

Roger smiled wider.  "That's what the dressing room is for."  He gestured toward the heavy curtain behind him.

I hesitated- and not just because of the stories I'd heard about Roger and his infamous peeping tom escapades.  "Sir, I'm-"

"Oh, come on, my lovely. At least see how it fits, yeah?"

"Uh, honestly, I was, um- looking for someone- not something," I explained at last.

His brows rose.  "Oh?"

"Yes, um- isn't there, uh, someone else who runs this thing with you?"

"Yeah, that'll be Fred."

At the mere sound of his name, I felt like I'd been electrocuted.  "Uh- is he- here?"

"You a friend of his?"

"I wish," I smiled.

His pretty brows furrowed.  "I mean, he's gone out to get tea, he left some time ago.  Should be back fairly soon.  Do you want to wait for him?"

"How soon?"

"Shouldn't be much more than another ten minutes, I'd say."

That was too long.  I had ten minutes left, starting that very second.  "Uh- maybe not."

"You sure you don't want to try on the top?"

"I'm sure," I giggled.  "But thanks.  I probably- I think I'll just go see if I can meet him outside."

"Okay," he nodded.  "Good luck!"

"Thanks, Roger," I replied- before I realized he'd never told me his name.  Before he could ask how I knew him (and he looked like he was about to), I darted away, moved as quickly as I could toward the door.  I couldn't just stand awkwardly around the stall, waiting for Freddie to stop by.  I had to head a little closer toward home base.

Well, if nothing else, I spoke to a very cute Roger, I told myself.  That's just as good, right?

Yes, except I wanted to speak to Freddie, not Roger.  Don't get me wrong, I liked Roger, and I thought he was very cute and hyper in a charming way, though he didn't interest me nearly so much as his dark counterpart.  But who was I to complain?  How many people in this world have ever even had the chance to go back in Time?  And talk to Roger effing Taylor, Queen's soon-to-be drummer?

Just as I reached the front door, I saw the guy who had visited their stall right before me also was making for the exit.  On instinct I popped the door open, and let him through first.  Without even looking up, he carried on, tugging on his new purchase as he went outside.

You're welcome, I chuckled to myself, about to walk through myself when another, more outlandishly-dressed man strode up behind, hands full, head down, eyes shaded.  I stayed where I stood, holding the door.

"Oh, thank you," he purred absently.

"Sure thi-" I began- but he was moving so fast and with such purpose he was already out of earshot.  And suddenly the dark, somewhat poofy shoulder-length hair and the purr, that unmistakable campy purr, registered.

It was he.

Oh, God.  Oh, God, oh, GOD, OH GOD, I JUST HELD THE DOOR OPEN FOR FREDDIE MERCURY.  HE WAS THIS CLOSE.  HE SPOKE TO ME!  HE SAID THANK YOU!  TO ME!  AHHHHH!

I wanted to run after him, but my feet wouldn't move.  I was scared stiff of approaching him.  How well would it have gone over anyway, me stalking a would-be total stranger back to his market stall?  Once both boys had determined I knew neither of them as friends or even acquaintances, they would demand an explanation. 

And knowing me, the best I could come up with on the spot would sound only a little more intelligent than a flat-out "Uhhhh... I don't know."

Smooth operator, am I right?

I started walking away, then asked myself why I was giving up so quickly.  Seven minutes were left.  Maybe it was worth a shot, walking back in, drifting back his way, just to look at him for a little bit before returning home.  I would settle for anonymity, keeping my distance.  At least I could say I was there, and that I saw him.  Hadn't that been my fundamental goal from the start?  Indeed.  These were precious crumbs they were throwing me.  Now was not a time to be greedy, or ungrateful.

So I went back toward the door- when it burst open from within.  And I couldn't believe my eyes.

That same young, long-legged Freddie leapt out, looking both ways down the street, searching for something, standing a measly six feet away from me.

Suddenly Freddie turned my way and said something.  I was too dizzy to hear it at first, so I said, "What?"

"You there, come here!"  he commanded, snapping his fingers like a man in a restaurant calling for the check.  On impulse I obeyed. 

"Yes?" I squeaked.

"Did you see a man come out just now with a jacket?  A man about so high, my size, not much to look at?"  He spoke quickly, and his English accent was much more pronounced than what I was used to hearing come out of him.  In his hand was the money the man had forked over minutes before.

I struggled to find the words.  "Uh- I think."

"Which way did he go?"

I pointed to my left.  "That way-?"

"Again, thank you," he sighed, then took off running, disappearing around the corner.  Honestly, Freddie had been rather rude to me just now- I did not take kindly to when people would snap their fingers at me- but I could hardly remember to care.

He said, "again," I told myself, feeling like I was lifting off the sidewalk into the stratosphere.  He remembered me from before.  He noticed me!  WOW!

I walked a few paces after him, hoping to catch a piece of the scene.  I still wasn't sure what was going on.  Hopefully the man hadn't gone so far that I couldn't figure it out from their body language.

Sure enough, about a hundred fifty feet down around the corner, I saw the two men together, seemingly in the throes of a heated argument.  Freddie waved his hands around dramatically, pointing at the jacket, then at the money in his hand.  The man kept trying to get a word in, but every time he opened his mouth, Freddie started up again, cutting him off before he started.  I couldn't help smiling.  That's about right.

Eventually, the man gave up- and to my wondering eyes, I watched him shuffle out of the jacket and hand it to Freddie, who then gave him back his money.  Freddie patted his shoulder as if to say "No hard feelings, mate," then the slightly-less annoyed man shrugged and started back down the street like before. 

Freddie kept his head down, the infamous jacket slung over his arm.  I just stood there, staring, watching as suddenly he seemed to remember who he was, and the affect he was required to give off, and then swiftly lifted his chin haughtily, replacing shyness with sheer arrogance.  I knew I should have turned around, faced the other way, but I couldn't help but watch him.

Finally, he seemed to feel my eyes upon him; as he passed me, he looked my direction.  "Sorry," he murmured with a slight, apologetic shrug.

"What happened?" I asked without thinking.

"Oh, nothing, just a sort of- misunderstanding, shall we say."

"Oh?"

"Mm." He was standing only a few paces away, not walking anymore, just talking to me. It was so incredible.  "See, that man had visited our little shop in there, and Roger, my, um-"

"Partner in crime?" I offered.

"Right," he snickered behind his hand (HE LAUGHED AT SOMETHING I SAID, OH LORD).  "Sold my jacket without asking- and I just had that man there give it back."

"Ah," I nodded.  "Couldn't part with it, eh?"

"How could I, dear?  I mean, look at this, it's exquisite, don't you agree?" he crooned, showing me the jacket- which under normal circumstances would not have been anything special, but thanks to Freddie's encouragement might as well have been the royal robes of a king. 

I nodded, humoring him.  "Simply divine."

"Then you can understand why- that all happened," he concluded.  His invisible eyes looked me over.  "He didn't sell you anything of mine, too, did he?"

"Who are we talking about?"

"Roger- blond fellow, Partners in Crime stall, not sure if you saw it-"

"Oh, yes!  No," I shook my head, smiling. 

"What?"

"I mean- I mean, yes, I know who you mean, but no, he didn't sell me anything."

"Mm.  Well, even if he had, I'd let you keep it," he purred in a voice that I just knew was accompanied by a wink. 

"Why, thank you."

"My pleasure."  Then he seemed to remember something. "Hey, by the way, are you at all in the music business?"

"No.  Are you?"

"I am, in fact."  Doy, I said to myself, while he went on, "I just wondered, me and my band- are looking for a sort of gig opportunity."

"A band?"

"Mm.  Rock and roll.  Just like Jimi Hendrix."

"What's the name?"

"Well, see, that's still in the works.  They were called Smile- but now that I'm in, we're trying out new names, trying to find what sticks the best- although I think my idea is the best, but anyway..." He trailed off, looked at me funny, perhaps wondering to himself why he was telling me all this in the first place. 

"I'll keep an eye out," I assured him.  Three forty-five.  Three forty-four. three forty-three.

"Right," he hummed.  "Anyway, thanks again for your help, Ms- what did you say your name was, dear?"

I blinked.  "Sal?"

"Sal," he repeated.  "I'm Freddie."

"Nice to meet you."  I put out my hand, and instead of shaking it, he took it in his own, drew it up to his lips, and kissed it.  My skin prickled and numbed at the touch of those soft, full lips.  Just a peck, a harmless, theatrical gesture, but it went straight to my head.  And it was only because of this that I had the courage to ask what I asked next.

Just before he walked away with a standard send off-line, I murmured, "Freddie?"

He turned around again.  "Yes, darling?"

I swallowed.  Now or never.  Literally.

"Do you- mind if I kiss you please?"

He took off his shades at last, squinted at me.  "What?"

"Just right here."  I tapped my cheek.  "Nothing big, just... and I know it's weird, seeing as you don't know me at all, but- yeah."

The pursed lips curved into something a little deeper than the complacent smirk I had expected.  "But of course, dear."  He waved his hand for me to draw nearer, so I did.

Less than three minutes remained.

I leaned up, shut my eyes, and very gently kissed his cheek.

It's funny what hits you in a moment like that. My nose briefly nuzzled against his long dark hair as my lips touched the gaunt cheek, which was soft and mostly smooth save where a little ambitious dark stubble was already trying to resurface after that morning's shave.  He put his hand on my arm, gripped it a little.  He didn't know me at all, and and yet he touched me in this way. 

And his scent?  Oh, how do I describe it.  I've put in my story that he smelled like licorice- and while that actually is not at all far from the truth, it's not the whole truth.  There were hints of black licorice, but also of wildflowers, with a trace of honey and I want to say some other spice, Middle Eastern in origin, but I can't put my finger on it.  Suffice it to say, he smelled gorgeous.

When I pulled away, I found myself caught in the smiling dark eyes- smiling not in a personal, intimate way, it was more amused, more highly flattered than anything else- but I have yet to find another time where just looking into someone's eyes makes me feel the way he made me feel inside.

A bit awkwardly, I drew back, taking my hand off his shoulder (how did that get there?), my flesh burning with the desire to kiss him again, but this time, on the lips.  Alas, time was of the essence- and he had to get back to Roger.  I smiled, hoping he couldn't see me tremble, then stepped back.

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank you," he purred.  "See you round?"

I blinked, swallowed.  "Yeah," I murmured.  "See you round."

"Good."  He waved, pulled the door open to the market, and vanished.

Forever.

The next few moments I spent there aren't very interesting.  I walked back to the phone booth, and waited.  When my time was up, I was prepared, and enlightened, and ready to get back.

But there was one thing I was not, nor would ever be again.

I was not the same.