beings　whose　lives　weren’t　dominated　by　her；　and　also　because　I
  could　promptly　leave　without　further　discussion。　The　pathetic
  majority　who　recognized　the　name　became　instantly　curious。　Some
  wondered　which　gossip　column　I　wrote　for。　But　regardless　of　whatever
  story　I　made　up；　no　one　had　seen　her　in　their　shop　（with　the
  exception　of　three　stores　who　hadn’t　“seen　Ms。　Priestly　in　months；
  and　oh；　how　we　miss　her！　Please　do　tell　her　that
  Franck/Charlotte/Sarabeth　sends　his/her　love！”）。
  When　I　hadn’t　located　the　shop　by　noon　of　the　third　day；　Emily
  finally　gave　me　the　green　light　to　e　to　the　office　and　ask
  Miranda　for　clarification。　I　started　sweating　when　the　car　pulled　in
  front　of　the　building。　I　threatened　to　climb　over　the　turnstile　if
  Eduardo　didn’t　let　me　pass　without　a　performance。　By　the　time　I
  reached　our　floor；　the　sweat　had　soaked　through　my　shirt。　Hands
  started　shaking　the　moment　I　entered　the　office　suite；　and　the
  perfectly　prepared　speech　（Hello；　Miranda。　I’m　fine；　thanks　so　much
  for　asking。　How　are　you？　Listen；　I　just　wanted　to　let　you　know　that
  I’ve　been　trying　very　hard　to　locate　the　antique　store　you
  described；　but　I　haven’t　had　much　luck。　Perhaps　you　could　tell　me
  whether　it’s　on　the　east　or　west　side　of　Manhattan？　Or　maybe　you
  even　recall　the　name？）　simply　vanished　into　the　fickle　regions　of　my
  very　nervous　brain。　Against　all　protocol；　I　didn’t　post　my　question
  on　the　Bulletin；　I　requested　permission　to　approach　her　at　her　desk
  and—probably　because　she　was　so　shocked　I’d　had　the　nerve　to　speak
  without　being　spoken　to—she　granted　it。　To　make　a　long　story　short；
  Miranda　sighed　and　patronized　and　condescended　and　insulted　in　every
  delightful　way　of　hers　but　finally　opened　her　black　leather　Hermès
  planner　（tied　shut　inconveniently　but　chicly　with　a　white　Hermès
  scarf）　and　produced　。　。　。　the　Business　card　for　the　store。
  “I　left　this　information　on　the　recording　for　you；　Ahn…dre…ah。　I
  suppose　it　would　have　been　too　much　trouble　to　write　it　down？”　And
  even　though　the　yearning　to　make　decorative　paper…cut　designs　all
  over　her　face　with　the　aforementioned　Business　card　filled　my　entire
  being；　I　simply　nodded　and　agreed。　It　wasn’t　until　I　looked　down　at
  the　card　that　I　noticed　the　address：　244　East　68th　Street。
  Naturally。　East　or　west　or　Second　Avenue　or　Amsterdam　wouldn’t　have
  made　a　damn　bit　of　difference；　because　the　store　I’d　just　dedicated
  the　past　thirty…three　working　hours　to　locating　wasn’t　even　in　the
  seventies。
  I　thought　of　this　as　I　wrote　down　the　last　of　Miranda’s　late…night
  requests　before　racing　downstairs　to　meet　Uri　at　our　designated
  area。　Every　morning　he　described　where　he　parked　in　great　detail　so
  I　could　theoretically　meet　him　at　the　car。　But　every　morning；　no
  matter　how　fast　I　made　it　downstairs；　he’d　bring　everything　inside
  himself　so　I　wouldn’t　have　to　race　up　and　down　the　streets　searching
  for　him。　I　was　delighted　to　see　that　today　was　no　exception：　he　was
  leaning　against　a　lobby　turnstile；　holding　bags　and　clothes　and
  books　in　his　arms　like　a　benevolent；　generous　grandfather。
  “Don’t　you　run　to　me；　you　hear？”　he　said　in　his　thick　Russian
  accent。　“All　day　long；　you　run；　run；　run。　She　makes　you　work　very；
  very　hard。　This　is　why　I　bring　the　tings　to　you；”　he　said；　helping
  me　get　a　grip　on　the　overflowing　bags　and　boxes。　“You　be　a　good
  girl；　you　hear；　and　have　a　nice　day。”
  I　shot　him　a　grateful　look；　glared　at　Eduardo　semijokingly—my　way　of
  saying；　“I　will　fucking　kill　you　if　you　eventhink　of　asking　me　to
  strike　a　pose　right　now”—and　softened　a　bit　when　he　buzzed　me
  through　the　turnstiles；　ment…free。　I　miraculously　remembered　to
  stop　by　the　lobby　newsstand；　where　Ahmed　piled　all　of　Miranda’s
  requested　morning　papers　into　my　arms。　Although　the　mailroom
  delivered　each　to　Miranda’s　desk　by　nine　each　day；　I　was　still　to
  purchase　a　full　second　set　every　morning　to　help　minimize　the　risk
  that　she　would　spend　a　single　second　in　her　office　without　her
  papers。　Same　with　the　weekly　magazines。　No　one　seemed　to　mind　that
  we　charged　nine　newspapers　a　day　and　seven　magazines　a　week　for
  someone　who　read　only　the　gossip　and　fashion　pages。
  I　dumped　all　her　stuff　on　the　floor　under　my　desk。　It　was　time　for
  the　first　round　of　ordering。　I　dialed　the　number　I’d　memorized　long
  ago　for　Mangia；　a　gourmet　takeout　place　in　midtown；　and；　as　usual；
  Jorge　answered。
  “Hi；　pumpkin；　it’s　me；”　I’d　say；　propping　the　phone　against　my
  shoulder　so　I　could　start　logging　into　Hotmail。　“Let’s　get　this　day
  started。”　Jorge　and　I　were　friends。　Talking　three；　four；　five　times
  a　morning　had　a　funny　way　of　bonding　two　people　rather　quickly。
  “Hey；　baby；　I’ll　send　one　of　the　boys　over　right　away。　Is　she　there
  yet？”　he　asked；　understanding　that　“she”　was　my　lunatic　boss　and
  that　she　worked　forRunway；　but　not　quite　understanding　who　exactly
  would　be　consuming　the　breakfast　I　had　just　ordered。　Jorge　was　one
  of　my　morning　men；　as　I　liked　to　call　them。　Eduardo；　Uri；　Jorge；　and
  Ahmed　gave　a　decent　as　possible　start　to　my　day。　They　were
  deliciously　unaffiliated　withRunway；　even　though　their　separate
  existences　in　my　life　were　solely　meant　to　make　its　editor’s　life
  more　perfect。　Not　a　single　one　of　them　truly　understood　Miranda’s
  power　and　prestige。
  Breakfast　number　one　would　be　on　its　way　to　640　Madison　in　seconds；
  and　the　chances　were　good　I’d　have　to　throw　it　out。　Miranda　ate　four
  slices　of　greasy；　fatty　bacon；　two　sausage　links；　and　a　soft　cheese
  Danish　every　morning；　and　washed　it　down　with　a　tall　latte　from
  Starbucks　（two　raw　sugars；　remember！）。　As　far　as　I　could　tell；　the
  office　was　divided　on　whether　she　was　permanently　on　the　Atkins　diet
  or　just　lucky　enough　to　have　a　superhuman　metabolism；　the　result　of
  some　pretty　fantastic　genes。　Either　way；　she　thought　nothing　of
  devouring　the　fattiest；　most　sickeningly　unhealthy　foods—even　though
  the　rest　of　us　weren’t　exactly　afforded　the　same　luxury。　Since
  nothing　stayed　hot　for　more　than　ten　minutes　after　it　arrived；　I’d
  keep　reordering　and　tossing　until　she　showed　up。　I　could　get　away
  with　microwaving　each　meal　one　time；　but　that　bought　me　only　an
  extra　five　minutes；　and　she　could　usually　tell。　（“Ahn…dre…ah；　this
  is　vile。　Get　me　a　fresh　breakfast　at　once。”）　I　would　order　and
  reorder　every　twenty　minutes　or　so　until　she　called　from　her　Cell
  Phone　and　told　me　to　order　her　breakfast　（“Ahn…dre…ah；　I’ll　be　at
  the　office　shortly。　Order　my　breakfast”）。　Of　course；　this　was
  usually　only　a　two…　or　three…minute　warning；　so　the　preordering　was
  necessary　both　because　of　the　short　warning　and　in　the　rather　mon
  event　that　she　didn’t　bother　to　call　at　all。　If　I’d　done　my　job；　by
  the　time　her　actual　call　for　breakfast　had　e；　I’d　already　have
  two　or　three　on　the　way。
  The　phone　rang。　It　had　to　be　her；　too　early　to　be　anyone　else。
  “Miranda　Priestly’s　office；”　I　chirped；　bracing　myself　for　the
  iciness。
  “Emily；　I’ll　be　there　in　ten　minutes　and　I’d　like　my　breakfast　to　be
  ready。”
  She　had　taken　to　calling　both　Emily　and　me　“Emily；”　suggesting；
  quite　rightly；　that　we　were　indistinguishable　from　each　other　and
  pletely　interchangeable。　Somewhere　in　the　back　of　my　mind　I　was
  offended；　but　I’d　grown　accustomed　to　it　at　this　point。　And　besides；
  I　was　too　tired　to　really　care　about　something　as　incidental　as　my
  name。
  “Yes；　Miranda；　right　away。”　But　she　had　already　hung　up。　The　real
  Emily　walked　into　the　office。
  “Hey；　is　she　here？”　she　whispered；　looking　furtively　toward
  Miranda’s　office　as　she　always　did；　without　a　hello　or　a　good
  morning；　just　like　her　mentor。
  “Nope；　but　she　just　called　and　she’ll　be　here　in　ten。　I’ll　be　back。”
  I　quickly　transferred　my　cell　phone　and　cigarettes　to　my　coat　pocket
  and　ran。　I　had　only　a　few　minutes　to　get　downstairs；　cross　Madison；
  and　jump　the　line　at　Starbucks—and　suck　down　my　first　precious
  cigarette　of　the　day　while　in　transit。　Stamping　out　the　last　embers；
  I　stumbled　into　the　Starbucks　at　57th　and　Lex　and　surveyed　the　line。
  If　it　was　fewer　than　eight　or　so　people；　I　preferred　to　wait　like　a
  normal　person。　Like　most　days；　however；　the　line　today　was　twenty　or
  more　poor　professional　souls；　wearily　waiting　in　line　for　their
  expensive　caffeine　fix；　and　I　had　to　jump　in　front　of　them。　It　was
  not　something　I　relished；　but　Miranda　didn’t　seem　to　understand　that
  the　latte　I　presented　to　her　each　morning　could　not　onlynot　be
  delivered　but　could　easily　take　a　half　hour　at　prime　time　to
  purchase。　A　couple　weeks　of　shrill；　angr