When I write, I turn oblivious to my surroundings. My senses grow numb, and I find myself in another world all my own. If I am in one of my favorite cafés, I am regularly surprised by the change that that has taken place while I was writing. This happened one more time a few minutes ago, but this time I spotted a woman who looked very like my ex-wife when I first met her. In her mid-twenties, she had the same frizzy hair, the same facial features, the same body proportions. As usual, I panicked at first. “Shit,” I could almost hear myself scream, “what if she’s spotted me, too?” But I calmed down quickly enough. The woman looked my way not even once. As I was finishing my piece and polishing it up, I looked at her every now and then, but she paid me no attention whatsoever. And it became a real pleasure looking at my ex-wife from the bewildering distance of both space and time. It was as though nothing had ever happened between us. And as though nothing ever would or even could. Another chance at life, as it were. Pure fiction, to be sure, but still an amazing joy.