(no subject)
Germs
Coco // i_heart_cuddy
rating R
pairing Mirandy
summary Andy figures out Miranda's dirty secret. How she chooses to use that information is still to be decided upon. Andy's POV.
disclaimer I own nothing. Not a car. Not a house. Not the Devil Wears Prada. No copyright infringement is intended. This is purely for recreational purposes, officer.
<--click to enlarge
Miranda Priestly is a germaphobe.
Sure, it took me a while to figure it out but now that I have it makes so many things make so much more sense. The clues are all there, anyone could figure it out. Few do, of course, but I was a psychology minor in college. Also, I don't worship Miranda and everything she stands for the way the others do, so I subject her to much more scrutiny.
Admittedly, the incident that first aroused my suspicions was so minor that I nearly missed it. Early last week Nigel was having allergy problems, it was typical for the time of year, it was spring and the pollen was wreaking havoc with everyone. Obviously his allergies weren't contagious so he came in to work.
Miranda and Nigel were in Miranda's office, arguing about the best photographs to use in the issue when the soft, "Andrea," floated into the outeroffice where I was stationed.
I picked my notepad up from the corner of the desk and entered the office. She began to dictate her ridiculous demands to me as I dutifully scribbled them down. Nigel began to sniffle, he took out his handkerchief and turned away from Miranda. Miranda faltered, ever so slightly, before continuing her list.
Then it happened, Nigel sneezed. I looked up to bless him and I saw it. Fear flashed across Miranda's face, it was very subtle. A slight eyebrow raise, a slight pursing of the lips and a slight flare of her nostrils. Just as quickly as it appeared it was gone. Miranda fidgeted in her seat.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Nigel fold the handkerchief and tuck it back into his pocket. She cleared her throat, lifted her gaze back to me, said, "and a coffee on your way back. That's all."
I turned and left the office not knowing exactly what to think. I embarked on my errands, quickly forgetting the odd reaction to the sneeze as I dodged midtown traffic, four big bags of expensive couture clutched in my hands. It was when I held the scaulding hot cup of coffee in my burning hand that my mind reminded me of Miranda.
I stood there for a moment, the burn from coffee no longer forefront in my mind as I realized: Miranda only drinks scaulding hot coffee because no germs can survive the heat! I wasn't completely sold on the idea just then of course. No self-respecting inquisitive mind would accept an anwer without seeing if it held up to a few tests.
The first test was instigated by Miranda, she invited me into the elvator with her. Due only to time constraints, of course, but there I was. I was in the belly of the beast, so to speak, and I exhaled. Not just a normal exhalation, I let out a long slow breath. She appeared not to react.
I'll admit it, I was dissapointed. When we stepped off the elevator she took a deep breath. My eyes widened. She'd held her breath the entire time. I could scarcely keep my grin at bay. Test number one was conclusive.
The second test also fell into my lap. I'd been tasked with finding a bound budget report from 1987; I didn't ask, I didn't even wonder anymore. Her holiness was out of the office when I returned so the report sat on my desk. After an hour other things had been stacked on top of it. Nigel graced me with his presence and saddled me with a swatch collection and a binder of new dress designs.
Miranda whirlwinded into the room. She stopped in front of my desk. My eyes rose to meet hers. I waited.
"The budget report."
I pushed the swatches and the designs off of the top of it. She helf out her hand for it. The idea struck me. I opened the front cover, licked my finger and turned a few pages, pretending to examine them and closed it. "Yes, this is it." I held it out to her.
Miranda closed her hand, recoiling, "take that to Irv." She snapped, making haste to her office.
I couldn't stop grinning. Even now as I think of it, I grin.
Most people think that Miranda is just particular. Don't get me wrong, she is particular, but she's not just particular. Let me lay it out for you.
It appears that steak is the exception to the rule. Apparently her bloodlust can trump her obsessive desire to have an internal temperature hot enough to burn. Sometimes I think the woman must not have feeling in her palette.
Emily's still in the hospital and Miranda needs an assistant to go with her to a photoshoot. Of course, I'm available. We're in the car now, Miranda leaning towards the crack in the window, breathing the fresh air as the car speeds along the country roads toward upstate New York.
Spring is in full bloom and even I'm tempted to open my window and lean out, smelling genuinely fresh air for the first time in months. The photoshoot was to take place first thing in the morning so we were driving out that evening. We'd stay in a hotel for the night and I can only imagine what preparations Miranda will have to make to be able to sleep tonight.
I bite my lip, trying not to grin amusedly. She's not looking at me, but I don't want to push my luck.
Later at the restaurant we're seated, I'm sitting next to Miranda, Nigel sits across from Miranda and the photographer and her assistant fill out two of the remaining three seats. The seat on Miranda's other side remains empty.
During the course of conversation at the table, Miranda unwraps her silverware from her napkin and lays it out in front of her. The conversation continues, we order and the waiter leaves us. Miranda discreetly wraps the silverware in the napkin again. I watch out of the corner of my eye as I talk to Nigel. Miranda carefully sets the restaurant's silverware on the empty chair, it is hidden from view because the chair is still pushed in. Then Miranda replaces the missing silverware with a set she's apparently hidden in her purse.
It makes me wonder, briefly, how much money she spends on silverware if she does that every time she goes to a restaurant.
Dinner is mostly routine. Miranda orders a steak, medium rare, Nigel orders a chicken ceasar salad and, despite dirty looks from Nigel, I order a bowl of corn chowder.
The plates, Miranda's silverware included, are cleared away and Miranda spends another hour discussing the shoot with the photographer. When they're done we go to the hotel. Miranda dismissed me for the evening and went to her room. I lingered outside, I heard her start to talk, "send up a fresh set of sheets that hasn't been opened... what do you mean you don't have any?"
In a fit of inanity I'm overcome with the urge to go buy her a set. So, wouldn't you know it? I do. There's a Bed, Bath and Beyond down the street and I buy her royal highness a set of sheets.
I knock on her door. It is flung open with annoyance. I imagine the prospect of used sheets is causing a spike in her anxiety levels. Frankly, she doesn't need that and more importantly I don't need that.
I hold up the sheets. She looks at me dubiously, she's looking through my eyes and trying to understand my brain, I can see that she's trying to pick apart what I'm thinking. She looks confused for a minute, poised to ask a question. Finally, wordlessly, she snatches the sheets from my hands and the door is slammed in my face.
Oddly, I'm not insulted. I'm relieved.
In the morning, I know that my dilligence has paid off. She's in surprisingly good fooling. Nigel even comments on it to me and Nigel is not easily surprised.
When we get back from the trip, things at the office feel a little routine and blaise. I decide that a little harmless fun at Miranda's expense would liven up my life. You're probably thinking that this is basically a death sentence, that I'm signing my own death warrant, but I'm not really thinking clearly, I'm still mad about Paris.
First thing in the morning she calls me in to her office to bark orders at me. I rub my nose a few times as I write. This distracts her. I sniffle and she knocks over her bottle of pellegrino. "Let me," I say as I move toward the desk, hand outstretched. She snatches the bottle up, looking stricken. The water is soaking into her papers and, instinctively, I head for the bathroom for a towel. Miranda steps in front of me, she seems prepared to stop me by means of bodily force if necessary. I stop in my tracks.
"Just go."
The doors are shut tightly behind me and Miranda spends the rest of the afternoon calming down.
I won't lie to you. I feel guilty. Miranda may be a tyrant of a human being, but she is a human being. She's just gone through another public and messy divorce and Irv is still breathing down her neck. Besides, I wouldn't appreciate having someone having fun at my expense so I vow to stop tormenting her.
Easier said than done, apparently.
As God as my witness, it's sheer dumb luck and my horrific sense of timing and my laughable clumsiness that has me at Miranda's feet, picking up her jacket from the floor. I helplessly wipe at the dust on the silk.
Miranda won't touch it. She gives me the most scathing look imaginable before storming out. I have to check for a pulse! I'm convinced for a few minutes that she has actually killed me! I'm still alive but for how much longer... I don't know. I saw pure anger in the woman's eyes and I still have to deliver the Book later tonight.
I'm doomed, I'm so doomed.
The book is delivered to me early. I had wanted the extra time to think about what I'd say at the inevitable confrontation, but I'm sitting in the towncar ambling down the streets of New York. For a moment I hope that she won't be expecting me so early so I won't have a problem.
This is not the case. I reach forward to put the key into the lock and Miranda opens the door before I even have the chance. Miranda motions for me to enter. I enter begrudgingly with my head hanging with guilt.
I wonder where the girls are. I wonder if there will be witnesses. She lets me put the dry cleaning away and set the book on the table before she spoke. "What have you been playing at?"
"I... I'm not playing at anything..." I say helplessly. "I... I'm sorry."
"But you're sorry about something. You know why I'm angry with you."
I bite my lip and nod, "yes, I do."
"I don't appreciate it, Andrea." Miranda shakes her head, "I find it horribly disrespectful."
I stand there for a moment, I've already said I'm sorry and it seems that Miranda would just like to bat me around for awhile. But she just watches me and I'm compelled to just stand there and be watched until Miranda chooses to release me.
I think she's considering what to do with me. If I need to be killed in order to keep her secret safe. Miranda Priestly: feared by all and fearful of nothing, she is, it seems, deathly afraid of the invisible menace, the microscopic bacteria that live on everything and even within her own body.
She's still staring at me. "I was sitting down to dinner."
That's great, I think, why share that with me?
Miranda turns toward the dining room. "Come and sit down."
Ah, it means she needs extra time to decide upon the manner of my execution. I accept, though I'm not fooling myself, I know it wasn't a question. She sits at the head of the table, "there's more in the kitchen, plates are to the left of the sink."
I go into the kitchen and the food smells like heaven, the steam is still rising from it. I take a plate from the cupboard and check a few drawers before I locate silverware before inspecting the food more closely. It's Peking Duck from the restaurant of the same name and a side of chinese broccoli. I help myself but I don't finish either of them off.
When I go back to the dining room Miranda has finished almost half of her dinner. I sit down tentatively. "Don't let it get cold." Miranda says softly.
I eat in silence. Miranda finishes before me and just sits there and wathces me. "I don't eat leftovers." She almost whispers, "and I hate wasting food."
"Thank you." I say when I finish. I stand, "would you like me to take these to the kitchen?"
Miranda nudges her plate toward me, "just put them in the dishwasher, I'll run it later."
Once inside the kitchen again I look for the dishwasher. I find it and it's a large stainless steel box, I wonder if it's industrial strength. I open it and inside are a few dishes and a few sets of silverware. It can hold probably ten times the amount that's in it before she runs it and it isn't like she's running out of plates. I hold my tongue. It's better that way. Not for the environment, mind you, but for my own well being.
I return to the dining room and she's not there. I find her in the sitting room with the Book. I scuff my feet a little and announce that I'm going to go. She nods and allows me to leave unscathed.
The rest of the week goes by and every night Miranda has take-out waiting when I arrive, no matter what time of the evening it is. She beckons me in and we eat in relative silence, sterile silverware clanking on delicate china.
Today is Friday and I won't be working tomorrow so I won't be in attendance at dinner and she knows it. So tonight as I head toward the door after loading the dishwasher she clears her throat.
I turn, this time apprehensively, perhaps she'd been lulling me into a false sense of security and now the other shoe would drop.
"Perhaps, in future, we could plan our meetings."
I smile at her shyness, "it seems to me that you have been planning this week, quite meticulously, I'd say."
Miranda smiles and it warms me all over. "Perhaps we could plan together to meet again." I can't stop smiling, I feel like a school girl, "tomorrow night?"
"I'd like that." I nod.
Miranda nods curtly back, "seven then."
I'm nervous. I'm more nervous now than when I wasn't involved in the planning. Somehow I was now inviting trouble, I was now responsible for whatever fury Miranda was going to unleash upon me. But here I am, I'm standing on the stoop and Miranda has bid me enter.
Miranda is standing in the dining room again, waiting for me with thai food. I'm almost distracted enough by the food to forget to bring up my misgivings. But damn her need to eat food while it's scalding hot, I need to talk to her first.
"Miranda," I say as I sit next to her seat, she pauses mid-sit, as though my continuing to speak is the only way gravity will work on her, "can we talk for a moment?"
Miranda lowers into the chair slowly. "Alright."
"I don't understand how we went from 'horribly disrespectful' to my sharing your dinner with you." I bite my lip, I don't know if I should've said it, Miranda looks conflicted.
"Well..." Miranda glances at the food, but continues despite the fact that she obviously worries that the good will get cold. "I was angry." There was a long pause as she thought, "but then I was relieved. I felt like I'd been hiding behind something but you saw me anyway. I felt like I didn't have to worry about discovery."
"Miranda, to be honest, the more I see of who you really are, the better I like you." I am now speaking without my own permission, "I hated you when we first met, but I didn't see you as a person, because you weren't showing me a person. Maybe I also wasn't trying to see a person. But I love the glimpses of you that you've given me."
Ah, hell no, I didn't just say love... Yet... Miranda is looking at me with a smile. I blush under the attention.
Miranda looks over at my hand and looks down at her hand, clearly locked in a battle of wills between her neurotic nervous system and her desire. Finally, she puts a hand on mine.
I smile. "Miranda, you're sweet."
"I could sue you for slander for saying that." Her eyes twinkle a bit. Miranda's hand tightens around mine and she actually smiles at me.
I lean in towards her, my lips hovering above hers. "Andrea," she breathes, "do you have any idea how many germs there are in the human mouth?"
I grin, "I don't really care." And I close the space between us.
♥
Coco // i_heart_cuddy
rating R
pairing Mirandy
summary Andy figures out Miranda's dirty secret. How she chooses to use that information is still to be decided upon. Andy's POV.
disclaimer I own nothing. Not a car. Not a house. Not the Devil Wears Prada. No copyright infringement is intended. This is purely for recreational purposes, officer.
<--click to enlarge
Miranda Priestly is a germaphobe.
Sure, it took me a while to figure it out but now that I have it makes so many things make so much more sense. The clues are all there, anyone could figure it out. Few do, of course, but I was a psychology minor in college. Also, I don't worship Miranda and everything she stands for the way the others do, so I subject her to much more scrutiny.
Admittedly, the incident that first aroused my suspicions was so minor that I nearly missed it. Early last week Nigel was having allergy problems, it was typical for the time of year, it was spring and the pollen was wreaking havoc with everyone. Obviously his allergies weren't contagious so he came in to work.
Miranda and Nigel were in Miranda's office, arguing about the best photographs to use in the issue when the soft, "Andrea," floated into the outeroffice where I was stationed.
I picked my notepad up from the corner of the desk and entered the office. She began to dictate her ridiculous demands to me as I dutifully scribbled them down. Nigel began to sniffle, he took out his handkerchief and turned away from Miranda. Miranda faltered, ever so slightly, before continuing her list.
Then it happened, Nigel sneezed. I looked up to bless him and I saw it. Fear flashed across Miranda's face, it was very subtle. A slight eyebrow raise, a slight pursing of the lips and a slight flare of her nostrils. Just as quickly as it appeared it was gone. Miranda fidgeted in her seat.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Nigel fold the handkerchief and tuck it back into his pocket. She cleared her throat, lifted her gaze back to me, said, "and a coffee on your way back. That's all."
I turned and left the office not knowing exactly what to think. I embarked on my errands, quickly forgetting the odd reaction to the sneeze as I dodged midtown traffic, four big bags of expensive couture clutched in my hands. It was when I held the scaulding hot cup of coffee in my burning hand that my mind reminded me of Miranda.
I stood there for a moment, the burn from coffee no longer forefront in my mind as I realized: Miranda only drinks scaulding hot coffee because no germs can survive the heat! I wasn't completely sold on the idea just then of course. No self-respecting inquisitive mind would accept an anwer without seeing if it held up to a few tests.
The first test was instigated by Miranda, she invited me into the elvator with her. Due only to time constraints, of course, but there I was. I was in the belly of the beast, so to speak, and I exhaled. Not just a normal exhalation, I let out a long slow breath. She appeared not to react.
I'll admit it, I was dissapointed. When we stepped off the elevator she took a deep breath. My eyes widened. She'd held her breath the entire time. I could scarcely keep my grin at bay. Test number one was conclusive.
The second test also fell into my lap. I'd been tasked with finding a bound budget report from 1987; I didn't ask, I didn't even wonder anymore. Her holiness was out of the office when I returned so the report sat on my desk. After an hour other things had been stacked on top of it. Nigel graced me with his presence and saddled me with a swatch collection and a binder of new dress designs.
Miranda whirlwinded into the room. She stopped in front of my desk. My eyes rose to meet hers. I waited.
"The budget report."
I pushed the swatches and the designs off of the top of it. She helf out her hand for it. The idea struck me. I opened the front cover, licked my finger and turned a few pages, pretending to examine them and closed it. "Yes, this is it." I held it out to her.
Miranda closed her hand, recoiling, "take that to Irv." She snapped, making haste to her office.
I couldn't stop grinning. Even now as I think of it, I grin.
Most people think that Miranda is just particular. Don't get me wrong, she is particular, but she's not just particular. Let me lay it out for you.
- Dry Clean Only. She gets her clothes power washed and wrapped in plastic daily.
- New jacket every day. Okay, partially because it's a faux pas to wear the same thing twice in a row, but she never wears it ever again because it has New York City grime on it. Not to mention that it's a cardinal sin to let the outside jacket pass into her office. Then the office would be contaminated.
- She has her own personal bathroom. Once again, it makes sense; she's the boss, she wants her own space. But when you know what I know... No one is allowed into that bathroom. When I say that, I mean that the cleaning staff has never set foot in it. Which can only mean that she cleans the bathroom herself.
- No matter how cold of a day it is, she rides with the window open in the Lexus. God forbid she'd share the same air as her driver or an assistant.
- The revolving doors. I have never seen her touch a door. Her jacket is already a lost cause so it's okay to lean it against the finger-print ridden glass.
- And those gloves. Those gorgeous black lace gloves that make me think naughty thoughts. They keep the germs away from nimble fingers
It appears that steak is the exception to the rule. Apparently her bloodlust can trump her obsessive desire to have an internal temperature hot enough to burn. Sometimes I think the woman must not have feeling in her palette.
Emily's still in the hospital and Miranda needs an assistant to go with her to a photoshoot. Of course, I'm available. We're in the car now, Miranda leaning towards the crack in the window, breathing the fresh air as the car speeds along the country roads toward upstate New York.
Spring is in full bloom and even I'm tempted to open my window and lean out, smelling genuinely fresh air for the first time in months. The photoshoot was to take place first thing in the morning so we were driving out that evening. We'd stay in a hotel for the night and I can only imagine what preparations Miranda will have to make to be able to sleep tonight.
I bite my lip, trying not to grin amusedly. She's not looking at me, but I don't want to push my luck.
Later at the restaurant we're seated, I'm sitting next to Miranda, Nigel sits across from Miranda and the photographer and her assistant fill out two of the remaining three seats. The seat on Miranda's other side remains empty.
During the course of conversation at the table, Miranda unwraps her silverware from her napkin and lays it out in front of her. The conversation continues, we order and the waiter leaves us. Miranda discreetly wraps the silverware in the napkin again. I watch out of the corner of my eye as I talk to Nigel. Miranda carefully sets the restaurant's silverware on the empty chair, it is hidden from view because the chair is still pushed in. Then Miranda replaces the missing silverware with a set she's apparently hidden in her purse.
It makes me wonder, briefly, how much money she spends on silverware if she does that every time she goes to a restaurant.
Dinner is mostly routine. Miranda orders a steak, medium rare, Nigel orders a chicken ceasar salad and, despite dirty looks from Nigel, I order a bowl of corn chowder.
The plates, Miranda's silverware included, are cleared away and Miranda spends another hour discussing the shoot with the photographer. When they're done we go to the hotel. Miranda dismissed me for the evening and went to her room. I lingered outside, I heard her start to talk, "send up a fresh set of sheets that hasn't been opened... what do you mean you don't have any?"
In a fit of inanity I'm overcome with the urge to go buy her a set. So, wouldn't you know it? I do. There's a Bed, Bath and Beyond down the street and I buy her royal highness a set of sheets.
I knock on her door. It is flung open with annoyance. I imagine the prospect of used sheets is causing a spike in her anxiety levels. Frankly, she doesn't need that and more importantly I don't need that.
I hold up the sheets. She looks at me dubiously, she's looking through my eyes and trying to understand my brain, I can see that she's trying to pick apart what I'm thinking. She looks confused for a minute, poised to ask a question. Finally, wordlessly, she snatches the sheets from my hands and the door is slammed in my face.
Oddly, I'm not insulted. I'm relieved.
In the morning, I know that my dilligence has paid off. She's in surprisingly good fooling. Nigel even comments on it to me and Nigel is not easily surprised.
When we get back from the trip, things at the office feel a little routine and blaise. I decide that a little harmless fun at Miranda's expense would liven up my life. You're probably thinking that this is basically a death sentence, that I'm signing my own death warrant, but I'm not really thinking clearly, I'm still mad about Paris.
First thing in the morning she calls me in to her office to bark orders at me. I rub my nose a few times as I write. This distracts her. I sniffle and she knocks over her bottle of pellegrino. "Let me," I say as I move toward the desk, hand outstretched. She snatches the bottle up, looking stricken. The water is soaking into her papers and, instinctively, I head for the bathroom for a towel. Miranda steps in front of me, she seems prepared to stop me by means of bodily force if necessary. I stop in my tracks.
"Just go."
The doors are shut tightly behind me and Miranda spends the rest of the afternoon calming down.
I won't lie to you. I feel guilty. Miranda may be a tyrant of a human being, but she is a human being. She's just gone through another public and messy divorce and Irv is still breathing down her neck. Besides, I wouldn't appreciate having someone having fun at my expense so I vow to stop tormenting her.
Easier said than done, apparently.
As God as my witness, it's sheer dumb luck and my horrific sense of timing and my laughable clumsiness that has me at Miranda's feet, picking up her jacket from the floor. I helplessly wipe at the dust on the silk.
Miranda won't touch it. She gives me the most scathing look imaginable before storming out. I have to check for a pulse! I'm convinced for a few minutes that she has actually killed me! I'm still alive but for how much longer... I don't know. I saw pure anger in the woman's eyes and I still have to deliver the Book later tonight.
I'm doomed, I'm so doomed.
The book is delivered to me early. I had wanted the extra time to think about what I'd say at the inevitable confrontation, but I'm sitting in the towncar ambling down the streets of New York. For a moment I hope that she won't be expecting me so early so I won't have a problem.
This is not the case. I reach forward to put the key into the lock and Miranda opens the door before I even have the chance. Miranda motions for me to enter. I enter begrudgingly with my head hanging with guilt.
I wonder where the girls are. I wonder if there will be witnesses. She lets me put the dry cleaning away and set the book on the table before she spoke. "What have you been playing at?"
"I... I'm not playing at anything..." I say helplessly. "I... I'm sorry."
"But you're sorry about something. You know why I'm angry with you."
I bite my lip and nod, "yes, I do."
"I don't appreciate it, Andrea." Miranda shakes her head, "I find it horribly disrespectful."
I stand there for a moment, I've already said I'm sorry and it seems that Miranda would just like to bat me around for awhile. But she just watches me and I'm compelled to just stand there and be watched until Miranda chooses to release me.
I think she's considering what to do with me. If I need to be killed in order to keep her secret safe. Miranda Priestly: feared by all and fearful of nothing, she is, it seems, deathly afraid of the invisible menace, the microscopic bacteria that live on everything and even within her own body.
She's still staring at me. "I was sitting down to dinner."
That's great, I think, why share that with me?
Miranda turns toward the dining room. "Come and sit down."
Ah, it means she needs extra time to decide upon the manner of my execution. I accept, though I'm not fooling myself, I know it wasn't a question. She sits at the head of the table, "there's more in the kitchen, plates are to the left of the sink."
I go into the kitchen and the food smells like heaven, the steam is still rising from it. I take a plate from the cupboard and check a few drawers before I locate silverware before inspecting the food more closely. It's Peking Duck from the restaurant of the same name and a side of chinese broccoli. I help myself but I don't finish either of them off.
When I go back to the dining room Miranda has finished almost half of her dinner. I sit down tentatively. "Don't let it get cold." Miranda says softly.
I eat in silence. Miranda finishes before me and just sits there and wathces me. "I don't eat leftovers." She almost whispers, "and I hate wasting food."
"Thank you." I say when I finish. I stand, "would you like me to take these to the kitchen?"
Miranda nudges her plate toward me, "just put them in the dishwasher, I'll run it later."
Once inside the kitchen again I look for the dishwasher. I find it and it's a large stainless steel box, I wonder if it's industrial strength. I open it and inside are a few dishes and a few sets of silverware. It can hold probably ten times the amount that's in it before she runs it and it isn't like she's running out of plates. I hold my tongue. It's better that way. Not for the environment, mind you, but for my own well being.
I return to the dining room and she's not there. I find her in the sitting room with the Book. I scuff my feet a little and announce that I'm going to go. She nods and allows me to leave unscathed.
The rest of the week goes by and every night Miranda has take-out waiting when I arrive, no matter what time of the evening it is. She beckons me in and we eat in relative silence, sterile silverware clanking on delicate china.
Today is Friday and I won't be working tomorrow so I won't be in attendance at dinner and she knows it. So tonight as I head toward the door after loading the dishwasher she clears her throat.
I turn, this time apprehensively, perhaps she'd been lulling me into a false sense of security and now the other shoe would drop.
"Perhaps, in future, we could plan our meetings."
I smile at her shyness, "it seems to me that you have been planning this week, quite meticulously, I'd say."
Miranda smiles and it warms me all over. "Perhaps we could plan together to meet again." I can't stop smiling, I feel like a school girl, "tomorrow night?"
"I'd like that." I nod.
Miranda nods curtly back, "seven then."
I'm nervous. I'm more nervous now than when I wasn't involved in the planning. Somehow I was now inviting trouble, I was now responsible for whatever fury Miranda was going to unleash upon me. But here I am, I'm standing on the stoop and Miranda has bid me enter.
Miranda is standing in the dining room again, waiting for me with thai food. I'm almost distracted enough by the food to forget to bring up my misgivings. But damn her need to eat food while it's scalding hot, I need to talk to her first.
"Miranda," I say as I sit next to her seat, she pauses mid-sit, as though my continuing to speak is the only way gravity will work on her, "can we talk for a moment?"
Miranda lowers into the chair slowly. "Alright."
"I don't understand how we went from 'horribly disrespectful' to my sharing your dinner with you." I bite my lip, I don't know if I should've said it, Miranda looks conflicted.
"Well..." Miranda glances at the food, but continues despite the fact that she obviously worries that the good will get cold. "I was angry." There was a long pause as she thought, "but then I was relieved. I felt like I'd been hiding behind something but you saw me anyway. I felt like I didn't have to worry about discovery."
"Miranda, to be honest, the more I see of who you really are, the better I like you." I am now speaking without my own permission, "I hated you when we first met, but I didn't see you as a person, because you weren't showing me a person. Maybe I also wasn't trying to see a person. But I love the glimpses of you that you've given me."
Ah, hell no, I didn't just say love... Yet... Miranda is looking at me with a smile. I blush under the attention.
Miranda looks over at my hand and looks down at her hand, clearly locked in a battle of wills between her neurotic nervous system and her desire. Finally, she puts a hand on mine.
I smile. "Miranda, you're sweet."
"I could sue you for slander for saying that." Her eyes twinkle a bit. Miranda's hand tightens around mine and she actually smiles at me.
I lean in towards her, my lips hovering above hers. "Andrea," she breathes, "do you have any idea how many germs there are in the human mouth?"
I grin, "I don't really care." And I close the space between us.
♥