Cry Me A River
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Summary: The constant Scottish winds put the idea for this ficlet into my head quite some time ago
Warning: Contains angst, tears (see story title)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but mixed them with a few other ingredients to create a unique (?) concoction
Andy walked out of the Daily Mirror building and adjusted her Vera Wang winter scarf around her neck as she descended the crumbling front steps to the street below. Cursing the February chill as she slung her satchel higher up on her shoulder, the weight of it digging in, even with a thick winter coat serving as padding.
Striding down the street, she hurried to the nearest subway station, anxious to escape the biting sting that came with the vestiges of winter. Thankfully, the story she was sent off to cover involved an interview indoors. Considering her recent pieces on the police force had required an exceptional amount of time outdoors at crime scenes and the like, Andy was feeling especially fortuitous in being given this assignment.
Although, truth be told, it still sucked to have to face the frost if only for the fifty yards between work and the subway station. As she approached the subway entrance, Andy wondered, briefly, it there would come a time when she didn’t have to work so hard to fight off the February blues that nibbled at the edges of her mind.
In her haste to cover the distance at a record pace, Andy failed to notice the smoky-grey Mercedes that pulled to a stop just after passing her.
-----------
When she returned to the office later that day, cupping a caramel apple cider in one of her gloved hands, Andy felt eyes on her from the doorway all the way to her desk. Perhaps it was paranoia?
“Sachs! My office, pronto.”
Nope. Not paranoia. Writing staff were only summoned by last name to the Editor’s office when there was trouble. Shedding her coat, gloves, and satchel, Andy left the scarf wrapped her neck as she carried the hot beverage into the mess that was Pete’s office. She figured if she was going to get read the riot act, she might as well be warm.
“Ms Sachs, are you unhappy here?”
Andy blinked, “Um, no.”
“Do you feel under appreciated?”
She transferred her weight from one foot to the other, “No.”
“Are you facing stress in your personal life that work somehow magnifies?”
This time, she simply shook her head.
“Finally, is your job somehow impeding upon your active social life?”
Andy furrowed her brow, searched his face in an effort to discern the source of this line of questioning.
“Ms. Sachs?”
“Hmm?” Andy looked at him, imploringly. “Oh. No. I have no social life. I mean, I don’t think work is impeding my personal life.” She blushed.
“Then you will kindly set Miranda Priestly straight. I can’t have her coming in here and disrupting work whenever she feels that we aren’t treating you as the princess that she obviously believes you to be.”
Andy cocked her head in complete puzzlement.
“Oh, and Ms. Sachs. I expect you to submit the taxi overcharge story by tomorrow morning.” He paused, studied an upturned palm while rubbing it with the thumb of his opposite hand.
“I meant what I said about Ms. Priestly. I fully expect you to get her squared away on acceptable behavior before you dream of setting foot in this building again.” The room fell silent.
“Go.”
Andy involuntarily jerked a little, a splash of hot cider flying onto her hand, stinging. The pain and her shock at her editor’s statements sent her blindly out of the office. She paused at her desk long enough to pick up her outerwear and depart, feeling eyes on her, once again.
This time, as she stepped out into the cold air, she was glad for it. The sharp air awakened her, helped her to think. Andy decided to walk to one of the subway stops a bit further from the office, taking advantage of rapidly firing synapses to mull over what had just happened.
By the time she reached her apartment, Andy had more questions than answers. She poured some coffee grounds into a copper-colored coffee basket, filled the reservoir with water, and checked the water filter before turning on the machine. Perhaps with a full carafe of caffeine streaming through her bloodstream, she could tear through the story she needed to write up and not do the thing she really wanted to do.
The very likely suicidal thing she wanted to do.
Five minutes later, as the dark liquid began to make its way into the insulated stainless steel carafe in a steady stream, she was bundling back up and storming out again. The coffee would have to wait until she got back. Forget suicide -- if anything, this would be a kamikaze mission.
As she neared the Elias-Clarke building, Andy realized this might all be for naught if her victim was not in the office. She slid her cell phone out and dialed the number she knew by heart.
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” Emily’s cool voice responded before the line completed a single ring.
“Is she in her office?”
There was a momentary hesitation, as Andy pictured Emily trying to decipher if this was someone she should know or an irritating nobody she needed to shake off.
“She’s not available right now, may I take a message?”
A wide smile spread across Andy’s face as she neared the entrance to her previous place of employment. Based upon the nuanced response, she hung up, confident that Miranda was, indeed, there.
Somehow, she was able to slide past the security point, following behind a couple of clackers and boarded an elevator headed for the ninth floor.
During the ride up, Andy briefly considered what she might say, what she might do. White-hot indignation had been contained in her belly since she had begun her journey here. It now breached through the last vestiges of self-control. As Andy stepped out of the elevator, she paused only briefly while her elevator companions turned towards the Hair and Make-up Department. Turning in the opposite direction, she strode right by the front reception where a young man looked up, too late, from the magazine he had been reading.
With long, heavy steps, Andy peeled off her coat, dropping it and her purse on Emily’s desk before the protective terrier of a Brit could comprehend what she was seeing.
Once inside Miranda’s office, Andy paused. With deadly calm, she shut the glass door behind her, and sized up the familiar space. None of the layout had changed and there was no one else there except for the very woman she intended to throttle.
Miranda’s chair was turned towards the windows looking out on the overcast city, the woman standing with one hand at the small of her back, massaging an obvious tender spot as she stretched. Andy could hear the small cracking sound of Miranda's spine from where she stood, just inside the doorway.
There was the faint sound of Emily’s voice behind her, and Andy could sense the door being pushed back open. Turning only slightly, she pressed her right leg against it and turned the latch.
The sound of the bolt clicking into place was faint, but Miranda had heard it. She turned around and froze when she saw Andy standing there.
The young reporter saw the slight movement in the Editor’s throat as she took a small gulp. Andy’s pupils constricted, the normally deep brown irises now lit up an almost fiery yellow. With measured steps, she moved in for the kill.
“Andrea, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” There was a slight quiver to the older woman’s voice, and the usual chill to her tone was missing altogether. Andy stopped just on the opposite side of the glass-topped desk, never breaking eye contact. Miranda gulped again.
They stood there, staring at one another for what seemed an eternity. Andy’s tense posture belied the fact that she was ready to pounce, quite literally, at the slightest provocation.
Runway’s Editor-in-Chief, known to disregard others completely, was very obviously aware that she was in real danger. Her eyes darted over Andy’s face, and she unconsciously pursed her lips, pinching a small amount of the tissue between her teeth.
Finally, Miranda broke the gaze, blinking and then attempting to cover with her trademark nonchalance. She looked down at the desk, sliding her laptop to one side, sitting down.
“I have work to do, Andrea, so say what you must and then leave.” The statement was made with the trademark edge to it that threatened to turn mere mortals into quivering masses of jelly.
Sparkling eyes watched as Miranda reached out for her reading glasses, perched them on the bridge of her nose, and glanced over the top of them before studying a sheath of papers.
Andy’s hand reached out, deftly sweeping the pages up off the desktop. They made a short flight, fluttering to the floor like leaves knocked about in the wind. Miranda sat stone still.
“What were you doing at the Mirror? I quit Runway months ago, Miranda. Why the hell are you f-king with me now? If you were going to screw with me, why wait until now?”
Miranda made no verbal response. Her lips parted slightly, and Andy watched with intense focus as what little color there was in the older woman’s face drained away. Andy leaned across the desk, feeling the edge digging into the tops of her thighs, creating a new crease in her dark tweed trousers. Andy looked down at the forehead just inches below her chin.
And waited.
Ice-blue eyes slowly rose to meet her gaze.
“What. The. --“ She was cut off before she could finish her staccato, accusatory questioning.
“You were crying, Andrea.”
“What?!” Andy leaned back, confusion etched across her features, not for the first time that day. She couldn’t capture Miranda’s attention. The older woman was looking at their distorted reflections in the smudged glass.
Miranda reached up and removed her reading glasses, playing with the bows as she took a deep breath.
“Andrea, I saw you this morning. Outside that pitiful excuse for a newspaper office.” There was a shift as Miranda dug deep and attempted to recover her mantle of superiority before she continued.
“Don’t deny it, Andrea. You are not an accomplished liar.” The steely low tone had returned. Miranda gave the younger woman a piercing gaze even as several strands of hair slid down across her forehead, followed by a larger lock a moment later.
“What?!” Andy repeated.
The Ice Queen made an appearance, rolling her eyes and leaning back in her chair, wincing briefly, “Andrea. You are the embodiment of Pollyanna, irrepressibly positive and happy. I know what I saw. You were crying this morning. Real tears. Sorrowful tears.” She set the reading glasses down, studying the reflection of light in the glass top once again.
“What are you talking about?” Andy was starting to feel warm, hot even. She tugged at her scarf, loosening its stranglehold on her neck. When Miranda sighed, Andy pulled the scarf off completely, dropping it unceremoniously on the overstuffed chair next to her. The thin, off-white blouse she was wearing clung, damply to her torso, making her feel slightly uncomfortable. She held her ground, though, even as the feeling of righteous superiority started to wane.
“Andrea, I know tears of pain and sorrow when I see them. And I did see them, outside your work this morning. Those weren’t angry tears - you had those the day I read you out for not getting me back from Miami on time. And they weren’t tears of happiness - you had those the evening of the benefit after I indicated a modicum of gratitude for steering Irv away from Stephen. That leaves only one other emotion that causes tears - sorrow. That is what I saw this morning.”
Andy couldn’t believe her ears. Miranda was explaining herself to someone. And not only that, the content of what she was saying was, well, mind-blowing.
“God knows why I’m explaining myself to you,” the woman stated dully, realizing what she had done and attempting to find her indifferent persona and put it back in place more permanently, protecting her from the pain of the outside world - and from her own, confusing cacophony of emotions.
“Now, unless you have something further that requires my attention, as I said before, I’m busy. Runway doesn’t magically put itself together, if you recall.”
Andy didn’t hear her. All of the righteous indignation that had been boiling up inside her and preparing to blow with an explosiveness akin to Mt. Saint Helens had imploded upon itself. She stood there, attempting to process what had just happened. Miranda had won, again?
“Andrea, that’s all.” Each word was enunciated as Miranda slid the laptop back to the center of the desk and began dancing her fingers over the keys.
Andy turned to leave, the all-too-familiar dismissal triggering her auto-pilot. She was almost to the door, when her brain snapped a puzzle piece into place.
Miranda had made note of her emotions. Andrea’s emotions. And while that was earth-shattering enough to short-circuit Andy’s brain, that wasn’t the most significant bit. Miranda had thought she was sad this morning. That she was crying and sad. And had done something about it.
She cared.
Andy turned around and retraced her steps. This time, as she approached the desk, she was far less confident.
“Miranda. This morning, when you saw me crying, I wasn’t upset.” Her voice was soft. In fact, it all was coming together now. Andy was filled with a clarity she hadn’t realized was possible without being triggered by strong coffee.
Miranda kept her eyes focused on the computer screen as Andy circled around the desk, her shoes making a slight crinkling sound as she stepped on the edges of the strewn papers.
“Miranda.” Andy waited for the woman to look up. When she didn’t, Andy continued on, anyway.
“If you saw me crying outside of work this morning, those weren’t tears of sorrow, happiness, or anger. They were simply tears.”
There was a small snort in response.
“Really. I wasn’t feeling anything in particular. Whenever the air is just cool enough, my eyes water like crazy. For no particular reason.” Andy was now standing about a foot away, gazing down at snowy hair and a plunging neckline on a soft, grey sweater.
Miranda turned in her chair, looked up at Andy with a look of pained astonishment. Andy felt a sudden ache in her chest. Miranda had noticed her tears and cared enough to go after her current employer. Miranda Priestly cared.
Andy leant down, placing her hands on the edge of the armrests of the chair, bringing their eyes level. They were close enough that she could smell the signature perfume, its scent wrapping around her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe.
“Thank you, Miranda.” Andy’s face broke into a soft smile, her pupils widening slightly and her irises turning a deep espresso.
For a brief moment, a sexual tension rose up between them, and Andy felt her knees about to buckle under the weight of the intense desire that flooded through her. Miranda’s gaze dropped an inch or two to Andy’s lips, then further down to the outline of a lace-covered bra pressed against Andy’s thin blouse.
Suddenly, Miranda turned her head away, cleared her throat. And the moment was gone. Andy straightened up, wondering if she had imagined the passion in Miranda’s eyes, if she had actually wanted Miranda in that moment, or she had confused sensuality with sexual desire. What had she been doing, bent over the woman like that?
Andy slowly made her way across the room to leave for good this time, only to be called back.
“Andrea, your scarf.“ Andy blushed, gathered the long stretch of fabric and went to unlatch the lock on the door.
At the last moment, she turned back to see Miranda watching her. From here, a safe distance away, she could breathe and think. And she felt compelled to clarify something.
“You know, you did see me cry tears of pain once. Well, almost.”
The sigh was deep, melodramatic, impatient.
“One evening, in Paris, in your suite. I came dangerously close to tears when a wonderful woman made a shy, if heart-wrenching appearance. At the last moment, my employer stepped in, pulled me back from the edge. Reminded me to do my job. And I did. And I haven’t seen that vulnerable, beautiful woman since. I miss her. Goodbye, Miranda.”
Andy flipped the latch, and left.
When she got back to her apartment, she poured a steaming hot cup of coffee, feeling deflated, exhausted. With some effort, she sat down to write up her article. A couple of hours later, she sent the piece in to her editor, along with a note that she had set things straight with her previous employer.
She crawled into bed that night and tears of sorrow did, at last, make their way down her cheeks, soaking her pillow. Andy hadn’t cried when Miranda’s heart had been broken over the effect of a divorce on her children, and she hadn’t cried when Miranda reneged on her promise to Nigel. She hadn’t shed a single tear when she arrived home from Paris to discover Nate had moved out and accepted the job in Boston. And she certainly hadn’t been crying this morning. But now, she did cry. In actual fact, she sobbed.
Several miles away, another woman was sitting up in her own bed, a spiral bound book sitting un-opened on her lap as tears streamed down her face, triggered by a song playing faintly over the radio in the background.
“Cry me a river, cry me a river, I cried a river over you…”
Summary: The constant Scottish winds put the idea for this ficlet into my head quite some time ago
Warning: Contains angst, tears (see story title)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but mixed them with a few other ingredients to create a unique (?) concoction
Andy walked out of the Daily Mirror building and adjusted her Vera Wang winter scarf around her neck as she descended the crumbling front steps to the street below. Cursing the February chill as she slung her satchel higher up on her shoulder, the weight of it digging in, even with a thick winter coat serving as padding.
Striding down the street, she hurried to the nearest subway station, anxious to escape the biting sting that came with the vestiges of winter. Thankfully, the story she was sent off to cover involved an interview indoors. Considering her recent pieces on the police force had required an exceptional amount of time outdoors at crime scenes and the like, Andy was feeling especially fortuitous in being given this assignment.
Although, truth be told, it still sucked to have to face the frost if only for the fifty yards between work and the subway station. As she approached the subway entrance, Andy wondered, briefly, it there would come a time when she didn’t have to work so hard to fight off the February blues that nibbled at the edges of her mind.
In her haste to cover the distance at a record pace, Andy failed to notice the smoky-grey Mercedes that pulled to a stop just after passing her.
-----------
When she returned to the office later that day, cupping a caramel apple cider in one of her gloved hands, Andy felt eyes on her from the doorway all the way to her desk. Perhaps it was paranoia?
“Sachs! My office, pronto.”
Nope. Not paranoia. Writing staff were only summoned by last name to the Editor’s office when there was trouble. Shedding her coat, gloves, and satchel, Andy left the scarf wrapped her neck as she carried the hot beverage into the mess that was Pete’s office. She figured if she was going to get read the riot act, she might as well be warm.
“Ms Sachs, are you unhappy here?”
Andy blinked, “Um, no.”
“Do you feel under appreciated?”
She transferred her weight from one foot to the other, “No.”
“Are you facing stress in your personal life that work somehow magnifies?”
This time, she simply shook her head.
“Finally, is your job somehow impeding upon your active social life?”
Andy furrowed her brow, searched his face in an effort to discern the source of this line of questioning.
“Ms. Sachs?”
“Hmm?” Andy looked at him, imploringly. “Oh. No. I have no social life. I mean, I don’t think work is impeding my personal life.” She blushed.
“Then you will kindly set Miranda Priestly straight. I can’t have her coming in here and disrupting work whenever she feels that we aren’t treating you as the princess that she obviously believes you to be.”
Andy cocked her head in complete puzzlement.
“Oh, and Ms. Sachs. I expect you to submit the taxi overcharge story by tomorrow morning.” He paused, studied an upturned palm while rubbing it with the thumb of his opposite hand.
“I meant what I said about Ms. Priestly. I fully expect you to get her squared away on acceptable behavior before you dream of setting foot in this building again.” The room fell silent.
“Go.”
Andy involuntarily jerked a little, a splash of hot cider flying onto her hand, stinging. The pain and her shock at her editor’s statements sent her blindly out of the office. She paused at her desk long enough to pick up her outerwear and depart, feeling eyes on her, once again.
This time, as she stepped out into the cold air, she was glad for it. The sharp air awakened her, helped her to think. Andy decided to walk to one of the subway stops a bit further from the office, taking advantage of rapidly firing synapses to mull over what had just happened.
By the time she reached her apartment, Andy had more questions than answers. She poured some coffee grounds into a copper-colored coffee basket, filled the reservoir with water, and checked the water filter before turning on the machine. Perhaps with a full carafe of caffeine streaming through her bloodstream, she could tear through the story she needed to write up and not do the thing she really wanted to do.
The very likely suicidal thing she wanted to do.
Five minutes later, as the dark liquid began to make its way into the insulated stainless steel carafe in a steady stream, she was bundling back up and storming out again. The coffee would have to wait until she got back. Forget suicide -- if anything, this would be a kamikaze mission.
As she neared the Elias-Clarke building, Andy realized this might all be for naught if her victim was not in the office. She slid her cell phone out and dialed the number she knew by heart.
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” Emily’s cool voice responded before the line completed a single ring.
“Is she in her office?”
There was a momentary hesitation, as Andy pictured Emily trying to decipher if this was someone she should know or an irritating nobody she needed to shake off.
“She’s not available right now, may I take a message?”
A wide smile spread across Andy’s face as she neared the entrance to her previous place of employment. Based upon the nuanced response, she hung up, confident that Miranda was, indeed, there.
Somehow, she was able to slide past the security point, following behind a couple of clackers and boarded an elevator headed for the ninth floor.
During the ride up, Andy briefly considered what she might say, what she might do. White-hot indignation had been contained in her belly since she had begun her journey here. It now breached through the last vestiges of self-control. As Andy stepped out of the elevator, she paused only briefly while her elevator companions turned towards the Hair and Make-up Department. Turning in the opposite direction, she strode right by the front reception where a young man looked up, too late, from the magazine he had been reading.
With long, heavy steps, Andy peeled off her coat, dropping it and her purse on Emily’s desk before the protective terrier of a Brit could comprehend what she was seeing.
Once inside Miranda’s office, Andy paused. With deadly calm, she shut the glass door behind her, and sized up the familiar space. None of the layout had changed and there was no one else there except for the very woman she intended to throttle.
Miranda’s chair was turned towards the windows looking out on the overcast city, the woman standing with one hand at the small of her back, massaging an obvious tender spot as she stretched. Andy could hear the small cracking sound of Miranda's spine from where she stood, just inside the doorway.
There was the faint sound of Emily’s voice behind her, and Andy could sense the door being pushed back open. Turning only slightly, she pressed her right leg against it and turned the latch.
The sound of the bolt clicking into place was faint, but Miranda had heard it. She turned around and froze when she saw Andy standing there.
The young reporter saw the slight movement in the Editor’s throat as she took a small gulp. Andy’s pupils constricted, the normally deep brown irises now lit up an almost fiery yellow. With measured steps, she moved in for the kill.
“Andrea, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” There was a slight quiver to the older woman’s voice, and the usual chill to her tone was missing altogether. Andy stopped just on the opposite side of the glass-topped desk, never breaking eye contact. Miranda gulped again.
They stood there, staring at one another for what seemed an eternity. Andy’s tense posture belied the fact that she was ready to pounce, quite literally, at the slightest provocation.
Runway’s Editor-in-Chief, known to disregard others completely, was very obviously aware that she was in real danger. Her eyes darted over Andy’s face, and she unconsciously pursed her lips, pinching a small amount of the tissue between her teeth.
Finally, Miranda broke the gaze, blinking and then attempting to cover with her trademark nonchalance. She looked down at the desk, sliding her laptop to one side, sitting down.
“I have work to do, Andrea, so say what you must and then leave.” The statement was made with the trademark edge to it that threatened to turn mere mortals into quivering masses of jelly.
Sparkling eyes watched as Miranda reached out for her reading glasses, perched them on the bridge of her nose, and glanced over the top of them before studying a sheath of papers.
Andy’s hand reached out, deftly sweeping the pages up off the desktop. They made a short flight, fluttering to the floor like leaves knocked about in the wind. Miranda sat stone still.
“What were you doing at the Mirror? I quit Runway months ago, Miranda. Why the hell are you f-king with me now? If you were going to screw with me, why wait until now?”
Miranda made no verbal response. Her lips parted slightly, and Andy watched with intense focus as what little color there was in the older woman’s face drained away. Andy leaned across the desk, feeling the edge digging into the tops of her thighs, creating a new crease in her dark tweed trousers. Andy looked down at the forehead just inches below her chin.
And waited.
Ice-blue eyes slowly rose to meet her gaze.
“What. The. --“ She was cut off before she could finish her staccato, accusatory questioning.
“You were crying, Andrea.”
“What?!” Andy leaned back, confusion etched across her features, not for the first time that day. She couldn’t capture Miranda’s attention. The older woman was looking at their distorted reflections in the smudged glass.
Miranda reached up and removed her reading glasses, playing with the bows as she took a deep breath.
“Andrea, I saw you this morning. Outside that pitiful excuse for a newspaper office.” There was a shift as Miranda dug deep and attempted to recover her mantle of superiority before she continued.
“Don’t deny it, Andrea. You are not an accomplished liar.” The steely low tone had returned. Miranda gave the younger woman a piercing gaze even as several strands of hair slid down across her forehead, followed by a larger lock a moment later.
“What?!” Andy repeated.
The Ice Queen made an appearance, rolling her eyes and leaning back in her chair, wincing briefly, “Andrea. You are the embodiment of Pollyanna, irrepressibly positive and happy. I know what I saw. You were crying this morning. Real tears. Sorrowful tears.” She set the reading glasses down, studying the reflection of light in the glass top once again.
“What are you talking about?” Andy was starting to feel warm, hot even. She tugged at her scarf, loosening its stranglehold on her neck. When Miranda sighed, Andy pulled the scarf off completely, dropping it unceremoniously on the overstuffed chair next to her. The thin, off-white blouse she was wearing clung, damply to her torso, making her feel slightly uncomfortable. She held her ground, though, even as the feeling of righteous superiority started to wane.
“Andrea, I know tears of pain and sorrow when I see them. And I did see them, outside your work this morning. Those weren’t angry tears - you had those the day I read you out for not getting me back from Miami on time. And they weren’t tears of happiness - you had those the evening of the benefit after I indicated a modicum of gratitude for steering Irv away from Stephen. That leaves only one other emotion that causes tears - sorrow. That is what I saw this morning.”
Andy couldn’t believe her ears. Miranda was explaining herself to someone. And not only that, the content of what she was saying was, well, mind-blowing.
“God knows why I’m explaining myself to you,” the woman stated dully, realizing what she had done and attempting to find her indifferent persona and put it back in place more permanently, protecting her from the pain of the outside world - and from her own, confusing cacophony of emotions.
“Now, unless you have something further that requires my attention, as I said before, I’m busy. Runway doesn’t magically put itself together, if you recall.”
Andy didn’t hear her. All of the righteous indignation that had been boiling up inside her and preparing to blow with an explosiveness akin to Mt. Saint Helens had imploded upon itself. She stood there, attempting to process what had just happened. Miranda had won, again?
“Andrea, that’s all.” Each word was enunciated as Miranda slid the laptop back to the center of the desk and began dancing her fingers over the keys.
Andy turned to leave, the all-too-familiar dismissal triggering her auto-pilot. She was almost to the door, when her brain snapped a puzzle piece into place.
Miranda had made note of her emotions. Andrea’s emotions. And while that was earth-shattering enough to short-circuit Andy’s brain, that wasn’t the most significant bit. Miranda had thought she was sad this morning. That she was crying and sad. And had done something about it.
She cared.
Andy turned around and retraced her steps. This time, as she approached the desk, she was far less confident.
“Miranda. This morning, when you saw me crying, I wasn’t upset.” Her voice was soft. In fact, it all was coming together now. Andy was filled with a clarity she hadn’t realized was possible without being triggered by strong coffee.
Miranda kept her eyes focused on the computer screen as Andy circled around the desk, her shoes making a slight crinkling sound as she stepped on the edges of the strewn papers.
“Miranda.” Andy waited for the woman to look up. When she didn’t, Andy continued on, anyway.
“If you saw me crying outside of work this morning, those weren’t tears of sorrow, happiness, or anger. They were simply tears.”
There was a small snort in response.
“Really. I wasn’t feeling anything in particular. Whenever the air is just cool enough, my eyes water like crazy. For no particular reason.” Andy was now standing about a foot away, gazing down at snowy hair and a plunging neckline on a soft, grey sweater.
Miranda turned in her chair, looked up at Andy with a look of pained astonishment. Andy felt a sudden ache in her chest. Miranda had noticed her tears and cared enough to go after her current employer. Miranda Priestly cared.
Andy leant down, placing her hands on the edge of the armrests of the chair, bringing their eyes level. They were close enough that she could smell the signature perfume, its scent wrapping around her lungs and making it difficult for her to breathe.
“Thank you, Miranda.” Andy’s face broke into a soft smile, her pupils widening slightly and her irises turning a deep espresso.
For a brief moment, a sexual tension rose up between them, and Andy felt her knees about to buckle under the weight of the intense desire that flooded through her. Miranda’s gaze dropped an inch or two to Andy’s lips, then further down to the outline of a lace-covered bra pressed against Andy’s thin blouse.
Suddenly, Miranda turned her head away, cleared her throat. And the moment was gone. Andy straightened up, wondering if she had imagined the passion in Miranda’s eyes, if she had actually wanted Miranda in that moment, or she had confused sensuality with sexual desire. What had she been doing, bent over the woman like that?
Andy slowly made her way across the room to leave for good this time, only to be called back.
“Andrea, your scarf.“ Andy blushed, gathered the long stretch of fabric and went to unlatch the lock on the door.
At the last moment, she turned back to see Miranda watching her. From here, a safe distance away, she could breathe and think. And she felt compelled to clarify something.
“You know, you did see me cry tears of pain once. Well, almost.”
The sigh was deep, melodramatic, impatient.
“One evening, in Paris, in your suite. I came dangerously close to tears when a wonderful woman made a shy, if heart-wrenching appearance. At the last moment, my employer stepped in, pulled me back from the edge. Reminded me to do my job. And I did. And I haven’t seen that vulnerable, beautiful woman since. I miss her. Goodbye, Miranda.”
Andy flipped the latch, and left.
When she got back to her apartment, she poured a steaming hot cup of coffee, feeling deflated, exhausted. With some effort, she sat down to write up her article. A couple of hours later, she sent the piece in to her editor, along with a note that she had set things straight with her previous employer.
She crawled into bed that night and tears of sorrow did, at last, make their way down her cheeks, soaking her pillow. Andy hadn’t cried when Miranda’s heart had been broken over the effect of a divorce on her children, and she hadn’t cried when Miranda reneged on her promise to Nigel. She hadn’t shed a single tear when she arrived home from Paris to discover Nate had moved out and accepted the job in Boston. And she certainly hadn’t been crying this morning. But now, she did cry. In actual fact, she sobbed.
Several miles away, another woman was sitting up in her own bed, a spiral bound book sitting un-opened on her lap as tears streamed down her face, triggered by a song playing faintly over the radio in the background.
“Cry me a river, cry me a river, I cried a river over you…”