I was the first to arrive for abortion. A short and balding orderly with a pot-belly was in the operating room already. Actually, it looked like an ordinary hospital room separated from the rest of the ward by a drab curtain. The orderly wore a navy-blue sweater, which made him look like a postman. There were several chairs around, but no bed of any kind. “She is here already,” he muttered and motioned vaguely toward the ward. I had not seen Lauren for months and I was a bit apprehensive about meeting her under such circumstances. “Where shall I sit?” I asked meekly. The orderly pointed at a chair in the back. “We’re going by the book today,” he said. I stood by the chair waiting when I heard Lauren’s voice. Then I saw her walk up to the curtain and stop there. She was talking to someone, perhaps a doctor. She saw me but she continued talking to the fellow without a greeting. Her face was puffy and her skin pasty. She must have been crying a lot, I thought. And then I woke up. Only then I realized I dreamt of divorce rather than abortion.