Would the soul cry out if it were being hurt, or would it take its licks salty dead silent? I don’t know but the operation went smooth (they say) and they removed the organ intact and placed it in the care of a preservation society. I don’t feel any different, except that I have no soul. I have found myself out politicking and bloodsucking, which were never part of my M.O. in the past, but seem to fit my personality so perfectly now. I think I may write myself in for president next Tuesday. Such are the ways of a woman – sans soul. Trying to compensate for the loss, I mean, though again I say I never felt better in my life, and shook hands with several doctors and a nurse. They even allowed me to put my palms up against the glass and peer in upon the many incubating souls in one dedicated room leased out by the chairman of some board, and I tried to locate mine and yes, I believe I found it! calling for me from one far sanitary corner. My breath steamed the glass and condensed. I stiffened up to suddenly realize a part of me was gone, and no small part indeed. But I comfort myself with my hand in my pocket wrapped around the thick fold of bills. I can properly say farewell and shout through the long empty echo chambers of my heart: “IT WAS WORTH IT!” Today I shall go and have myself fitted by my personal shopper, with all the fineries of a twenty-first century lady. By noon I can see myself peering into the floor to ceiling mirror, in the deep fault of re-cognition. An extravagant and spacious feeling, I am sure! But an envy of a ghost.