Elegy for Organ in Ten Parts

Lately, Elizabeth drank a lot, so she worried about her liver. Cirrhosis. Scarring. Nodules. Lesions. Swelling. All invisible. How could she know what happened inside her while she ate (little) and slept (less), while she swilled vodka tonics and took home strange men? She did not usually worry about her health. Instead she compared three- and two-button blazers and skin-clarifying moisturisers. She wondered if the new cruise line campaign she spearheaded had the right balance of hip South End newness and staid Beacon Hill sameness, so the Beacon Hill folks (the target market) were seduced but not scared. Her masterstroke: buying the rights to London Calling for the European Adventure theme song. Now that the project was winding down, she could relax after work, let her brain get flabby and happy for a couple weeks. But her mind revved up and refused to downshift, she would say, if she were trying to sell her brain to eighteen-tothirty- five-year-old men.