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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