The Devil Wears Prada - Lauren Weisberger

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.

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.

He kissed me, one of those long, lazy kisses it seemed we had personally invented.

Isaac sneezed a very cute baby sneeze in response, and Jill looked as though he'd just risen up from her arms a full-grown man and recited a few Shakespearean sonnets.

— And do you read Runway, Ahn-dre-ah? — she interrupted, leaning over the desk and peering at me even more intently than before. It had come so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for the first time that day I was caught off-guard. I didn't lie, and I didn't elaborate or even attempt to explain.
— No. After perhaps ten seconds of stony silence, she beckoned for Emily to escort me out. I knew I had the job.

Well, nothing ends the romance more swiftly than amoebic dysentery. I lasted a week in a filthy Indian hostel, begging Alex not to leave me for dead in that hellish place. Four days later we landed in Newark and my worried mother tucked me into the backseat of her car and clucked the entire way home. In a way it was a Jewish mother's dream, a real reason to visit doctor after doctor after doctor, making absolutely sure that every miserable parasite had abandoned her little girl.

The stairs stood where I remembered them but looked different in the haze of dusk. Still accustomed to the short, miserable days of winter, I thought it seemed strange that the sky was just darkening and it was already six-thirty. That night the stairs looked positively regal. They were prettier than the Spanish Steps or the ones outside the library at Columbia, or even the awe-inspiring spread at the Capitol building in D. C. It wasn't until I'd made it to about the tenth one of those white beauties that I began to loathe them. What cruel, cruel sadist would make a woman in a skintight, floor-length gown and spiked heels climb such a hill of hell? Since I couldn't very well hate the architect or even the museum official who'd commissioned him, I was forced to hate Miranda, who could usually be blamed for directly or indirectly causing all the misery and bad will in my life.

— Whatever, details, details. The point is, they're publishing it in the February issue and they're paying me three thousand dollars for it. How crazy is that? — Congrats, Andy. Seriously, that's amazing. And now you'll have this as a clip, right? — Yep. Hey, it's not The New Yorker, but it's an OK first step. If I can round up a few more of these, maybe in some different magazines, too, I might be getting somewhere. I have a meeting with the woman on Friday, and she told me to bring anything else I've been working on. And she didn't even ask if I speak French. And she hates Miranda. I can work with this woman.

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.

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.

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.

Chalk up my total as an even four grand for today’s ruined merchandise—a new personal best. Maybe she’d die before I got back, I thought, deciding that now was the time to look on the bright side. Maybe, just maybe, she’d keel over from something rare and exotic and we’d all be released from her wellspring of misery. I relished a last drag before stamping out the cigarette and told myself to be rational. You don’t want her to die, I thought, stretching out in the backseat. Because if she does, you lose all hope of killing her yourself. And that would be a shame.