Two months after the ink dried on our divorce papers, I found myself walking the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the Semmelweis Clinic

old films, who pressed her cold feet against mine in winter and called it marriage tax.

Now she looked like a ghost the hospital had forgotten in a corner.

I walked toward her slowly, afraid that any sudden movement might make the vision disappear. The corridor seemed to narrow around me. The air grew thick, heavy with antiseptic and something I could continue reading …