to　see　Alex　but　tell　him　nothing。　Even　though　I　tried　to　push　it　all
  out　of　my　mind；　they　kept　returning；　each　one　more　intense　than　the
  last　one。　When　I　finally　did　manage　to　fall　asleep；　I　dreamed　that
  Alex　was　hired　to　be　Miranda’s　nanny　and—even　though　in　reality　hers
  didn’t　live　in—he　was　to　move　in　with　the　family。　Whenever　I　wanted
  to　see　Alex　in　my　dream；　I　would　have　to　share　a　car　Home　with
  Miranda　and　visit　him　in　her　apartment。　She　would　insist　on　calling
  me　Emily　and　send　me　out　on　inane　errands　even　though　I　told　her
  repeatedly　that　I　was　just　there　to　visit　my　boyfriend。　By　the　time
  morning　had　finally　rolled　around；　Alex　had　fallen　under　Miranda’s
  spell　and　couldn’t　understand　why　I　thought　she　was　so　evil　and；
  even　worse；　Miranda　had　started　dating　Christian。　Blessedly；　my　hell
  ended　when　I　woke　in　a　start　after　dreaming　that　Miranda；　Christian；
  and　Alex　all　sat　around　in　Frette　robes　together　each　Sunday　morning
  and　read　theTimes　and　laughed　while　I　prepared　breakfast；　served
  everyone；　and　cleaned　up　afterward。　Sleep　last　night　was　about　as
  relaxing　as　a　solo　stroll　down　Avenue　D　at　four　in　the　morning；　and
  now　this　restaurant　review　was　wrecking　whatever　hope　I　had　of
  having　an　easy　Friday。
  “Hmm；　no；　we　really　haven’t　run　anything　lately　on　Asian　fusion。　I’m
  trying　to　think；　just　personally；　you　know；　if　there　are　any　new　hot
  Asian　fusion　places。　You　know；　places　that　Miranda　would　actually
  consider　going？”　she　said；　sounding　like　she’d　do　anything　to
  prolong　the　conversation。
  I　ignored　her　transition　into　first…name　familiarity　with　Miranda
  and　worked　on　getting　her　off　the　phone。　“OK；　well；　that’s　what　I
  thought。　Thanks　anyway；　though。　I　appreciate　it。　’Bye。”
  “Wait！”　she　cried　out；　and　even　though　the　phone　was　already　halfway
  to　the　base；　her　urgency　made　me　listen　again。　“Yes？”
  “Oh；　well；　I；　uh；　I　just　wanted　to　let　you　know　that　if　there’s；
  like；　anything　else　I　can　do—or　any　of　us　here—feel　free　to　call；
  you　know？　We　love　Miranda　here；　and　we’d；　like；　uh；　want　to　help
  with　anything　we　could？”
  You　would’ve　thought　that　the　First　Lady　of　the　United　States　of
  America　had　just　asked　Schizophrenic　Editorial　Girl　if　she　might　be
  able　to　locate　an　article　for　the　president；　an　article　that
  included　information　crucial　to　an　imminent　war；　and　not　an　unnamed
  review　on　an　unnamed　restaurant　in　an　unnamed　newspaper。　The　saddest
  part　of　all　was　that　I　wasn’t　surprised：　I　knew　she’d　e　around。
  “OK；　I’ll　be　sure　to　pass　that　along。　Thanks　so　much。”
  Emily　looked　up　from　preparing　yet　another　expense　account　and　said；
  “No　luck　there　either？”
  “Nope。　I　have　no　idea　what　she’s　talking　about；　and　apparently；
  neither　does　anyone　else　in　this　city。　I’ve　spoken　to　someone　at
  every　Manhattan　paper　she　reads；　checked　online；　talked　to
  archivists；　food　writers；　chefs。　Not　a　single　person　can　think　of　a
  suitable　Asian　fusion　place　that　has　so　much　as　been　open　in　the
  past　week；　never　even　mind　one　that’s　been　reviewed　in　the　past
  twenty…four　hours。　She’s　clearly　lost　her　mind。　So　what　now？”　I
  flopped　back　into　my　chair　and　pulled　my　hair　into　a　ponytail。　It
  still　wasn’t　yet　nine　in　the　morning；　and　already　the　headache　had
  spread　to　my　neck　and　shoulders。
  “I　guess；”　she　said　slowly；　regrettably；　“you　have　no　choice　but　to
  ask　her　to　clarify。”
  “Oh；　no；　not　that！　However　will　she　react？”
  Emily；　as　usual；　didn’t　appreciate　my　sarcasm。　“She’ll　be　in　at
  noon。　If　I　were　you；　I’d　figure　out　what　you　are　going　to　say　ahead
  of　time；　because　she　is　not　going　to　be　happy　if　you　don’t　have　that
  review。　Especially　since　she　asked　for　it　last　night；”　she　pointed
  out　with　a　barely　suppressed　smile。　She　was　clearly　delighted　that　I
  was　about　to　get　abused。
  There　was　little　left　to　do　but　wait。　It　was　my　luck　that　Miranda
  was　at　her　monthly　marathon　shrink　session　（“She　just　doesn’t　have
  time　to　go　all　the　way　over　there　once　a　week；”　Emily　had　explained
  when　I　asked　why　she　went　for　three　straight　hours）；　the　only　chunk
  of　time　during　the　entire　day　or　night　when　she　wouldn’t　call　us
  and；　of　course；　the　only　time　I　needed　her　to。　A　mountain　of　mail
  that　I’d　neglected　to　open　for　the　past　two　days　threatened　to
  topple　off　the　desk；　and　another　two　full　days’　worth　of　dirty　dry
  cleaning　was　heaped　under　it；　around　my　feet。　Huge　sigh　to　let　the
  world　know　just　how　unhappy　I　was；　and　I　dialed　the　cleaners。
  “Hi；　Mario。　It’s　me。　Yeah；　I　know—two　whole　days；　no　talk。　Can　I　get
  a　pickup；　please？　Great。　Thanks。”　I　hung　up　the　phone　and　forced
  myself　to　pull　some　of　the　clothes　onto　my　lap；　where　I　would　sort
  through　them　and　record　them　on　the　puterized　list　I　kept　of　her
  outgoing　clothes。　When　Miranda　called　the　office　at　9：45P　。M。　and
  demanded　to　know　where　her　new　Chanel　suit　was；　all　I　had　to　do　was
  open　up　the　document　and　tell　her　that　they’d　gone　out　the　day
  before　and　were　due　to　be　delivered　the　following　day。　I　logged
  today’s　clothes　in　（one　Missoni　blouse；　two　identical　pairs　of
  Alberta　Ferretti　pants；　two　Jil　Sander　sweaters；　two　white　Hermès
  scarves；　and　one　Burberry　trench　coat）；　threw　them　in　a　shopping　bag
  emblazoned　withRunway；　and　called　for　a　messenger　to　take　them
  downstairs　to　the　area　where　the　cleaners　would　pick　them　up。
  I　was　on　a　roll！　Cleaning　was　one　of　the　more　dreaded　tasks；　because
  no　matter　how　many　times　I　had　to　do　it；　I　was　still　repulsed　to　be
  sorting　through　someone　else’s　dirty　clothes。　After　I　finished
  sorting　and　bagging　every　day；　I　had　to　wash　my　hands：　the　lingering
  smell　of　Miranda　was　all…pervasive；　and　even　though　it　consisted　of
  a　mixture　of　Bulgari　perfume　and　moisturizer　and　occasionally　a
  whiff　of　B…DAD’s　cigarette　smoke　and　was　not　at　all　unpleasant；　it
  made　me　feel　physically　ill。　British　accents；　Bulgari　perfume；　white
  silk　scarves—just　a　few　of　life’s　simpler　pleasures　that　were
  forever　ruined　for　me。
  The　mail　was　the　usual；　ninety…nine　percent　garbage　that　Miranda
  would　never　see。　Everything　that　was　just　labeled　“Editor　in　Chief”
  went　directly　to　the　people　who　edited　the　Letters　pages；　but　many
  of　the　readers　had　gotten　more　savvy　and　now　addressed　their
  correspondence　directly　to　Miranda。　It　took　me　about　four　seconds　to
  skim　one　and　see　that　it　was　a　letter　to　the　editor　and　not　a
  charity　ball　invitation　or　a　quick　note　from　a　long…lost　friend；　and
  those　I　just　threw　aside。　Today　there　were　tons。　Breathless　notes
  from　teenage　girls　and　housewives　and　even　a　few　gay　men　（or；　in　all
  fairness；　maybe　straight　and　just　very　fashion…conscious）：　“Miranda
  Priestly；　you’re　not　only　the　darling　of　the　fashion　world；　you’re
  the　Queen　of　my　world！”　one　gushed。　“I　couldn’t　agree　more　with　your
  choice　to　run　the　article　about　red　being　the　new　black　in　the　April
  issue—it　was　ballsy；　but　genius！”　another　exclaimed。　A　few　letters
  ranted　about　a　Gucci　ad　being　too　sexual　since　it　depicted　two　women
  in　stilettos　and　garters　who　lay　together　on　a　rumpled　bed　and
  pressed　their　bodies　together；　and　a　few　more　decried　the
  sunken…eyed；　starvation…wracked；　heroine…chic　models　thatRunway　had
  used　in　its　“health　First：　How　to　Feel　Better”　article。　One　was　a
  standard…issue　post　office　postcard　that　was　addressed　in　flowery
  script　to　Miranda　Priestly　on　one　side　and　read；　quite　simply；　on
  the　other：　“Why？　Why　do　you　print　such　a　boring；　stupid　magazine？”　I
  laughed　out　loud　and　tucked　that　one　in　my　bag　for　later—my
  collection　of　critical　letters　and　postcards　was　growing；　and　soon
  there　wasn’t　going　to　be　any　fridge　space　left。　Lily　thought　it　was
  bad　karma　to　bring　Home　other　people’s　negative　thoughts　and
  hostility；　and　she　shook　her　head　when　I　insisted　that　any　bad　karma
  originally　intended　toward　Miranda　could　only　make　me　happy。
  The　last　letter　of　the　massive　pile　before　I’d　begin　tackling　the
  two　dozen　invitations　Miranda　received　each　day　was　addressed　in　the
  loopy；　girly　writing　of　a　teenager；　plete　withi　’s　dotted　with
  hearts　and　smiley　faces　next　to　happy　thoughts。　I　planned　to　only
  skim　it；　but　it　wouldn’t　allow　itself　to　be　skimmed：　it　was　too
  immediately　sad　and　honest—it　was　bleeding　and　pleading　and　begging
  all　over　the　page。　The　initial　four…second　period　came　and　went　and
  I　was　still　reading。
  Dear　Miranda；
  My　name　is　Anita　and　I　am　seventeen　years　old　and　I　am　a　senior　at
  Barringer　H。S。　in　Newark；　NJ。　I　am　so　ashamed　of　my　body　even　though
  everyone　tells　me　I’m　not　fat。　I　want　to　look　like　the　models　you
  have　in　your　m