Dear Liver

by Derek GRAY
 

I’m writing to apologize for the last forty-some (fifty?) hours. You’re an internal organ so I realize you have certain phenomenological constraints—no eyeballs, no ear canals to call your own, etc.—so what I’m about to describe might not fully resolve with your experience. Imagine that you could see; I’m not sure this will work, but roll with me.

Anyway, the way I picture you feeling now, I’ve seen it before. I was standing on 51st Street, near Broadway. I was halfway through a smoke break when it started. I noticed a woman in the driver’s seat of a maroon Hyundai with Arkansas plates, stopped cold on the asphalt like a highway-strolling deer. Horns blared and the driver behind her kept revving his engine, but she didn’t accelerate or turn on her emergency blinkers or budge. She just gripped the wheel, freaked out. I took my Camel to its filter, then waited, watching, until she got her nerve back; it took her three minutes at least. The look on her face, lost, panic-stricken, that’s what I imagine your face would look like if you had one. Your fleshy folds are probably clenched tight with disgust.

I’m not sure why I went on that bender—no good reason, really. Monday I felt like drinking, a lot. Then there was all the Tylenol the next day; my head hurt so badly I felt I had to take double the dose, every three hours. An extra pill’s as bad for you as a glass of Old Crow I heard. Then there was the bottle of Old Crow. It couldn’t have helped your recover; nor could’ve the varied drugs, whose effects on you I’m unsure of, but I’ll play it conservative and presume negative. Then, this morning, more pain killers and a tumbler of whiskey for good measure.

I’m sober now, and regretful for my mistreatment. I know I’m a jerk sometimes, but truly I care.

Yours,

Derek

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