delivered　but　could　easily　take　a　half　hour　at　prime　time　to
  purchase。　A　couple　weeks　of　shrill；　angry　phone　calls　on　my　Cell
  Phone　（“Ahn…dre…ah；　I　simply　do　not　understand。　I　called　you　a　full
  twenty…five　minutes　ago　to　tell　you　I’d　be　in；　and　my　breakfast　is
  not　ready。　This　is　unacceptable。”）；　and　I　had　spoken　to　the
  franchise　manager。
  “Um；　hi。　Thanks　for　taking　a　minute　to　talk　with　me；”　I　said　to　the
  petite　black　woman　who　was　in　charge。　“I　know　this　sounds　absolutely
  crazy；　but　I　was　wondering　if　we　could　work　something　out　in　terms
  of　me　having　to　wait　in　line。”　I　went　on　to　explain；　as　best　I
  could；　that　I　work　for　a　rather　important；　unreasonable　person　who
  doesn’t　like　to　wait　for　her　morning　Coffee；　and　was　there　any　way　I
  could　walk　ahead　of　the　line；　subtly；　of　course；　and　have　someone
  prepare　my　order　immediately？　By　some　stroke　of　dumb　luck；　Marion；
  the　manager；　was　going　to　FIT　at　night　for　a　degree　in　fashion
  merchandising。
  “Ohmigod；　are　you　kidding？　You　work　for　Miranda　Priestly？　And　she
  drinks　our　lattes？　A　tall？　Every　morning？　Unbelievable。　Oh；　yes；
  yes；　of　course！　I’ll　tell　everyone　to　help　you　right　away。　Don’t
  worry　about　a　thing。　She　is；　like；　the　most　powerful　person　in
  fashion；”　Marion　gushed　as　I　forced　myself　to　nod　enthusiastically。
  And　so　it　came　that　I　could；　at　will；　bypass　a　long　line　of　tired；
  aggressive；　self…righteous　New　Yorkers　and　order　before　those　who
  had　been　waiting　for　many；　many　minutes。　It　didn’t　make　me　feel　good
  or　important　or　even　cool；　and　I　always　dreaded　the　days　I　had　to　do
  it。　When　the　lines　were　hellishly　long　like　the　one　today—snaking
  around　the　entire　counter　and　pushing　its　way　outside—I　felt　even
  worse　and　knew　I’d　be　walking　out　with　a　full　load。　My　head　was
  pounding　at　this　point；　and　my　eyes　already　felt　heavy　and　dry。　I
  tried　to　forget　that　this　was　my　life；　the　reason　I’d　spent　four
  long　years　memorizing　poems　and　examining　prose；　the　result　of　good
  grades　and　lots　of　kissing　up。　Instead；　I　ordered　Miranda’s　tall
  latte　from　one　of　the　new　baristas　and　added　a　few　drinks　of　my　own。
  A　grande　Amaretto　Cappuccino；　a　Mocha　Frappuccino；　and　a　Caramel
  Macchiato　landed　in　my　four…cup　carrier；　along　with　a　half…dozen
  muffins　and　croissants。　The　grand　total　came　to　28。83；　and　I　made
  sure　to　tuck　my　receipt　into　the　already　bulging；　specially
  designated　receipt　section　of　my　wallet；　all　of　which　would　be
  reimbursed　by　the　always　reliable　Elias…Clark。
  I　had　to　hurry　now；　as　it　was　already　twelve　minutes　since　Miranda
  had　called　and　I　knew　she’d　probably　be　sitting　there；　seething；
  wondering　exactly　where　I　disappeared　to　every　morning—the　Starbucks
  logo　on　the　side　of　the　cup　didn’t　ever　clue　her　in。　But　before　I
  could　pick　up　all　the　stuff　from　the　counter；　my　phone　rang。　And　as
  usual；　my　heart　lurched。　I　knew　it　was　her；　absolutely；　positively
  knew　it；　but　it　scared　me　nonetheless。　The　caller　ID　confirmed　my
  suspicion；　and　I　was　surprised　to　hear　that　it　was　Emily；　calling
  from　Miranda’s　line。
  “She’s　here　and　she’s　pissed；”　Emily　whispered。　“You’ve　got　to　get
  back　here。”
  “I’m　doing　everything　I　can；”　I　growled；　trying　to　balance　the
  carrying　tray　and　the　bag　of　baked　goods　on　one　arm　and　hold　the
  phone　with　the　other。
  And　thus　the　basic　root　of　the　hatred　that　existed　between　Emily　and
  me。　Since　she　was　in　the　“senior”　assistant　position；　I　was　more　of
  Miranda’s　personal　assistant；　there　to　fetch　those　Coffees　and
  meals；　help　her　kids　with　their　Homework；　and　run　all　over　the　city
  to　retrieve　the　perfect　dishes　for　her　dinner　parties。　Emily　did　her
  expenses；　made　her　travel　arrangements；　and—the　biggest　job　of
  all—put　through　her　personal　clothing　order　every　few　months。　So
  when　I　was　out　gathering　the　goodies　each　morning；　Emily　was　left
  alone　to　handle　all　of　the　ringing　phone　lines　and　an　alert；
  early…morning　Miranda　and　all　of　her　demands。　I　hated　her　for　being
  able　to　wear　sleeveless　shirts　to　work；　where　she　wouldn’t　ever　have
  to　leave　the　warm　office　six　times　a　day　to　race　around　New　York
  fetching；　searching；　hunting；　gathering。　She　hated　me　for　having
  excuses　to　leave　the　office；　where　she　knew　I　always　took　longer
  than　necessary　to　talk　on　my　Cell　Phone　and　smoke　cigarettes。
  The　walk　back　to　the　building　usually　took　longer　than　the　walk　to
  Starbucks；　since　I　had　to　distribute　my　Coffees　and　snacks。　I
  preferred　to　hand　them　out　to　the　Homeless；　a　small　band　of　regulars
  who　hung　out　on　stoops　and　slept　in　doorways　on　57th　Street；
  thumbing　the　city’s　attempts　to　“clean　them　up。”　The　police　always
  hustled　them　away　before　rush　hour　kicked　into　high　gear；　but　they
  were　still　hanging　out　when　I　was　doing　the　day’s　first　coffee　run。
  There　was　something　so　fantastic—invigorating；　really—in　making　sure
  that　these　overpriced；　Elias…sponsored　Coffee　faves　made　it　into　the
  hands　of　the　city’s　most　undesirable　people。
  The　urine…soaked　man　who　slept　outside　the　Chase　Bank　got　a　daily
  Mocha　Frappuccino。　He　never　actually　woke　up　to　accept　it；　but　I
  left　it　（with　a　straw；　of　course）　next　to　his　left　elbow　each
  morning；　and　it　was　often　gone—along　with　him—when　I　returned　for　my
  next　Coffee　run　a　few　hours　later。
  The　old　lady　who　propped　herself　up　on　her　cart　and　set　out　a
  cardboard　sign　that　readNO　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。
  The　third　Coffee　went　to　Rio；　the　Nigerian　who　sold　CDs　off　a
  blanket。　He　didn’t　appear　to　be　Homeless；　but　he　walked　over　to　me
  one　morning　when　I　was　handing　Theresa　her　daily　fix　and　said；　or；
  rather；　sang；　“Yo；　yo；　yo；　you　like　the　Starbucks　fairy　or　what？
  Where’s　mine？”　I　handed　him　a　grande　Amaretto　Cappuccino　the　next
  day；　and　we’d　been　friends　ever　since。
  I　expensed　twenty…four　dollars　more　every　day　on　Coffee　than
  necessary　（Miranda’s　single　latte　should’ve　cost　a　mere　four
  dollars）　to　take　yet　another　passive…aggressive　swipe　at　the
  pany；　my　personal　reprimand　to　them　for　Miranda　Priestly’s　free
  rein。　I　handed　them　out　to　the　filthy；　the　smelly；　and　the　crazy
  because　that—and　not　the　wasted　money—was　what　wouldreally　piss　them
  off。
  By　the　time　I　made　it　to　the　lobby；　Pedro；　the　heavily　accented
  Mexican　delivery　boy　from　Mangia；　was　chatting　in　Spanish　with
  Eduardo　near　the　elevator　bank。
  “Hey；　here’s　our　girlie；”　said　Pedro　as　a　few　Clackers　peered　over
  at　us。　“I’ve　got　the　usual：　bacon；　sausage；　and　one　nasty…looking
  cheese　thing。　You　only　ordered　one　today！　Don’t　know　how　you　eat
  this　shit　and　stay　so　thin；　girl。”　He　grinned。　I　suppressed　the　urge
  to　tell　him　he　didn’t　have　a　clue　what　thin　looked　like。　Pedro　knew
  full　well　that　I　was　not　the　one　eating　his　breakfasts；　but　like
  every　one　of　the　dozen　or　so　people　I　spoke　to　before　eightA　。M。
  each　day；　he　didn’t　really　know　the　details。　I　handed　him　a　ten；　as
  usual；　for　the　3。99　breakfast；　and　headed　upstairs。
  She　was　on　the　phone　when　I　entered　the　office；　her　snakeskin　Gucci
  trench　draped　across　the　top　of　my　desk。　My　blood　pressure　increased
  tenfold。　Would　it　kill　her　to　take　the　extra　two　steps　over　to　the
  closet；　open　it；　and　hang　up　her　own　coat？　Why　did　she　have　to　take
  it　off　and　fling　it　over　my　desk？　I　put　down　the　latte；　looked　over
  at　Emily；　who　was　too　busy　answering　three　phone　lines　to　notice　me；
  and　hung　up　the　snakeskin。　I　shook　off　my　own　coat　and　bent　down　to
  toss　it　underneath　my　desk；　since　mine　might　infect　hers　if　they
  mingled　in　the　closet。
  I　grabbed　two　raw　sugars；　a　stirrer；　and　a　napkin　from　a　stock　I
  kept　in　my　desk　drawer　and　wrapped　them　all　together。　I　briefly
  considered　spitting　in　the　drink　but　was　able　to　restrain　myself。
  Next；　I　pulled　a　small　china　plate　from　the　overhead