This morning, at the respectable hour of 7am, I pull back the duvet and lift myself out of the steaming pit / bed that I sleep in. As I yawn and stretch out I hear a quiet whimpering coming from behind me. Sleepily, I look over my shoulder.
It is my Liver, looking more than a tad frail.
“Why do you still do it, Christopher? Why? We’ve been together for 32 years now. Why do you never listen to me?”
“What, prey tell, are you twittering on about now, little Liver? What? What?”
“Vodka. Beer. Do. Not. Mix. VODKA! BEER!”
A look of flushed concern sweeps over my face. I lie down next to my Liver and with my index finger tenderly stroke it. “I’m sorry. I do listen really. I promise this time. I won’t do it again.”
“Really promise?”
“Really promise.”
We hug and I get up once again and just before I leave my bedroom for the shower I look back and smile. “Love you!”
My Liver smiles too and although it is quite clearly still fatigued and a little distressed, it responds weakly, “Love you too.”
I leave the room and pad up the hall towards the bathroom. Quietly, under my breath...
“Sucker!”
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