Sundays are for going to the farmer’s market, except I’ve never been and can’t say for certain where it is. All I know is that when the forecast reads “surface of the sun,” the market must be held in a vast, air-conditioned space that happens to be empty for half of the year—at least in the mornings. Which is why neither of us questions it when we pull up outside an abandoned-looking movie theatre.

There’s only one spot left in the entire lot, so I claim it with the confidence of someone who once parallel-parked in a space 27% smaller than adequate by enlisting the help of some particularly brawny New York rats. (Poor fellows always get a bad rap).

Shoulders draped with reusable bags, Cindy and I emerge into eerie, apocalyptic silence. “Where is everybody?” I ask as we circle the building, looking for the entrance. Where are the dachshunds in strollers laden with lettuces and stone fruits? Where are the families sipping 10-dollar frozen kombuchas and carrying parcels of moist nuts? Why can’t we hear the local chanteuse murdering Fleetwood Mac on a Casio keyboard?

Instead, all we hear is a lone ceiling fan squeaking ominously with every sluggish turn, making no impact whatsoever on the torpid heat.

“That’s fucked up.” Cindy’s eyes flit to the fan before she resumes her earlier lamentation that her dog doesn’t like its new shoes. She wants to blame it on the pointed toes, but after spending a great deal of time with Penny, I know it’s that she can’t stomach the thought of wearing something colloquially referred to as “winkle pickers.”

“This could be very good for the witches,” I say, unable to shake the sense that everyone has been raptured. I tug on door after door, but they all remain stubbornly closed. Taped to one of them is a flyer advertising the very farmers’ market we are here to attend. We puzzle over this for a moment, then decide to try one last door.

The final door swings wide, welcoming us into a dingy theater that looks fully operational. Liquor bottles gleam under the lights, each labeled with a different day of the week. The concession stand is stocked with anthropomorphized hard-boiled eggs in varying stages of alarm and bread bags of hair, organized by color. In place of the popcorn maker is a claw machine arcade game. The tub is filled with plastic snow globes, each containing a tiny CVS pharmacy.

There is not a single human in sight.

“Hello?” Cindy calls.

Nothing, not even an echo. We exchange a look that says: What a weird farmers’ market. But curiosity has gotten the better of us.

Cindy heads down one of the carpeted halls, ducking into a theater showing the film “Moderate Peril.” Across the hall is a movie poster titled “Seven People Who Are Fine,” featuring images of people who do, indeed, appear to be fine.

As she continues to wander past empty theaters and down silent hallways, I find a heavy velvet curtain behind which I become increasingly convinced I will find the market. I pull it back and back and back, becoming more manic with each passing minute. It goes on forever, like passengers pouring out of a clown car or the endless colored scarves a magician pulls out of his throat.

I reach the end of the curtain at long last, just as Cindy reappears at my side. What we find there is a storage nook piled high with hand-painted rocking chairs, many of which look perfectly sized for leprechauns or beavers, if the latter were inclined to sit in a rocking chair.

But still, no farmers and no market. I sigh and head back toward the lobby.

“Should we make ourselves a drink?”

“We don’t drink,” Cindy reminds me.

“Right,” I say and then step behind the counter to pour myself a finger of clear liquor out of a bottle labeled “Thursday.” It tastes like escarole and brings on immediate existential angst. I leave it on the counter.

We linger a bit longer, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does, so we head back to the parking lot. On the way, we see a man lying on the ground next to a door marked Exit.

“He could be dead,” I say to Cindy. But he sits bolt upright, swiveling his head to pin us with a desolate gaze. Screaming, we sprint to the car, leap inside and careen onto the street before either of us notices the note under the windshield wiper.

Once we have driven a safe enough distance away, I pull over to grab the note. I hand it to Cindy and climb back behind the wheel. She unfolds it and reads: The market has moved to where it has always been. “Seems unhelpful,” she says before throwing the note out the window.

We drive in ever-expanding circles until we find a farmers’ market in a school auditorium several neighborhoods away. It has all the usual features: stroller dogs, savory dips in every color of the rainbow and people lined up to spend a month’s salary on a sourdough. While purchasing color-changing tea that promises to rid the drinker of excessive sweating, I tell the vendor we had trouble finding the place, but that we did find an abandoned movie theatre well-stocked with bags of hair.

“Oh,” she says pleasantly, handing me my change. “You found the Someday market. Most people never find that one.”

I open my mouth to ask a follow-up question, but she's already helping the next customer.

On the drive home, Cindy asks, “Should we go back? Maybe that guy needed help.”

“Absolutely not,” I say, because I’ve always thought it ill-advised to run toward the zombies. But my conscience gets the better of me, and I make a lurching left turn to head back the way we came. Only, when we arrive, all we see is an empty dirt lot.

“A month from now, I’ll be convinced that I dreamt this,” I say, consulting my map for the third time.

“That’s why I got you this,” Cindy says, pulling a snow globe containing a tiny CVS out of her bag and placing it on my dashboard.

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