Book: The devil wears Prada. Page 2

I loved to stand in the dark at the window of the office his omnipotent boss and watch the glowing lights of the restless new York. I imagined myself the heroine of the movie (you can choose any hot embrace of luxury, a wide terrace with a river view) and felt that I was on top of the world. And then flashed lamp, and my imagination dissipated. Disappear is inspired by the new York dawn of the feeling that on earth nothing is impossible...

The cost of this bag would be enough for me to pay the annual rent of the apartment, but Miranda liked to use it as a trash bag.

It is unlikely this meager belongings generally cost to label, but here I'm just being a Secretary.

You look great, Andy, really. I never thought I'd see you in an evening dress from Oscar de La Renta and that you went to the benefit Miranda priestly, but you... are quite consistent.

I was thrilled that Emily finally found a common language. Finally, we are one team, shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy. I suddenly felt that this year could be very different, if only Emily and I immediately became friends and would trust each other, protect and insure each other and repulsed the aggressor. And it is quite probable, then life would be much easier and more joyful, but except for such rare moments like this, we looked at all the different eyes.

Any decent housing in Manhattan to find it was harder than any decent straight guy.

Excess calories do not find a place in their bodies, but occupied all their thoughts.

That's friends together to drink together, do silly things and care about each other.

He kissed me one of those long, lazy kiss, during which it seemed to us that we were made for each other.
He kissed me, one of those long, lazy kisses it seemed we had personally invented.

An elderly lady sitting in a small cart and holding a cardboard that says "homeless. You can wash the floors. Want to eat" received caramel machiato. I soon learned that her name was Teresa, and first bought her latte as Miranda. She always thanked him, but never touched coffee while it was still hot. When I finally asked her if I should stop bringing her coffee, she energetically shook his head and mumbled that I can't afford to be picky, but she would like something sweeter, because this coffee is too strong for her. The next day I brought her a latte with vanilla and whipped cream. Well, it's better? Oh yeah, it's much, much better, but perhaps too sweet. The day I finally hit her: it turned out that Teresa all the other varieties prefer unflavored coffee with whipped cream and burnt sugar. She breaks into a toothless smile and began to greedily swallow of coffee as soon as I handed her a Cup.
The old lady who propped herself up on her cart and set out a cardboard sign that read NO Home/CAN CLEAN/NEED FOOD got the Caramel Macchiato. I soon found her name was Theresa, and I used to buy her a tall latte, like Miranda's. She always said thank you, but she never made a move to taste it while it was still hot. When I finally asked her if she wanted me to stop bringing them, she vigorously shook her head and mumbled that she hates to be picky, but she'd actually like something sweeter, that the coffee was too strong. The next day I had her coffee flavored with vanilla and topped with whipped cream. Was this better? Oh yes, it was much, much better, but maybe now it was a touch too sweet. One more day and I finally got it right: it turns out Theresa liked her Coffee unflavored, topped with whipped cream and some caramel syrup. She flashed a near-toothless smile and began guzzling it each and every day, the moment I handed it to her.

Sometimes she phoned me and asked where her coffee, her lunch, where she is a special toothpaste for sensitive teeth enamel, it was nice to know that at least her teeth are sensitive when I haven't even left the building.
Sometimes she'd call me to ask where something was - her latte, her lunch, some special, sensitive-teeth toothpaste I'd been sent to find - it was comforting to discover that at least her teeth had a bit of sensitivity - and I hadn't even left the building yet.

To get out of bed was probably even heavier than on weekdays, although if I had to do it a few hours earlier. The body rebelled and tried to remind you to fill the notorious "sleep deficit" (know from the course psychology), but I hauled him out of bed.
Getting out of bed was, quite possibly, even harder to do than other days even though it was happening a few hours later. My body had been briefly tricked into thinking that it would actually get to catch up, had depended on reducing that infamous "sleep debt" we'd learned about in Psych 101, when I wrenched it from bed.

Miranda, I'll have to put you in sleep mode while I call your chauffeur. Okay? I didn't wait for an answer, which I knew would only add fuel to the fire, and immediately switched it to pending. Then was called back to Paris. It was encouraging that the driver responded to the first call for the first number I typed, and not so it is gratifying that he, as it turned out, spoke no English. I was never a masochist, but then I was left with no choice but to start banging his forehead on the table surface. After the third energetic strike Emily put the driver on his line.
Miranda, I'm going to need to put you on hold while I call him. Can I put you on hold? I didn't wait for a response, which I knew would drive her crazy, and threw the call on hold. I dialed Paris again. The good news was the driver picked up on the first ring of the first number I tried. The bad news was he didn't speak English. Although I'd never been self-destructive before, I couldn't help but smash my forehead firmly into the Formica. Three times of this, and Emily had picked up the line at her desk.

An-Dre-Ah, I'm late for a meeting. Don't get me started. It was an Asian restaurant, and it was in the papers today. That's all. And with these words it snapped its "Motorola-V60". In me cherished the hope that someday the lid will pinch her perfectly manicured toes and perfect red nails and they will be digested in the guts of the phone. So far no luck.
Ahn-dre-ah, I'm already late for the meet. Don't grill me. It was an Asian fusion restaurant and it was in today's paper. That's all - and with that, she snapped her Motorola V60 shut. I hoped, as I usually did when she cut me off midsentence, that one day the Cell Phone would simply clamp down on her perfectly manicured fingers and swallow them whole, taking special time to shred those flawless red nails. No luck yet.