DISCLAIMER: The Devil Wears Prada and its characters belong to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
ABCs of DWP (K to O) I
Those air-kisses -- where cheeks might brush briefly, and no other contact was made -- only the most general of descriptions -- fleeting surface tension disturbed and then relaxed just as quickly.
No amount of make-up could varnish over a lingering glance, and a litany of instructions served to mercifully cover up that slight pause in breath just moments ago.
Even though she dealt so much with the visual -- the lighting, the colours, the poses, and even the storyline that might be told; even more important to Miranda Priestly were words themselves.
The bare minimum spoken to be efficient, and so much more left unspoken and instead -- implicit. Spoken just above a whisper and commanding attention by the lack of volume, each word uttered was treasured as an instruction from the heavens (if Miranda saw something worthwhile in your designs); or else, a demand from the Devil to accomplish the impossible (if you were Runway staff).
What most never heard were the words that she struggled with every time she sought to describe why she'd fall in -- was it love? lust? a lot of like? -- with her former second (or maybe it was first) assistant Andrea Sachs. As if speaking the words aloud gave them more power than she was prepared to surrender.
Like a hurricane made real, she acted and those around her reacted -- sometimes in concert, and at other times, in chaos. Like the eye of the storm, she was calm, but swirling outwards in a radial fashion were the demands for precision and perfection -- now rather than later, and never -- no.
Even as each step was preceded by a flurry of motion -- whether it was warding away the devil, or to find the unexpected from an ocean of the mundane; it became apparent that the struggle to sink or swim occurred each day, numerous times and at each opportunity that presented itself, whether wanted, or not. The barest of reactions -- an almost smile, or a brief nod, was treasured more than any amount of faux praise that might ever pass from the lips of anyone else.
With pursed lips at the sight of more of those thin belts that might as well have not been there, Miranda wondered why this dreadful 'trend' had made its appearance in the last three run-throughs. Was she not clear enough on her demands? Perhaps she'd need to fire those in Accessories for this deplorable range of offerings.
Sending everyone away with a quiet dismissal, she looked outside and took stock of what could be done to salvage the shooting schedule. Her eyes narrowed, and upon seeing the latest Emily return with Starbucks, she began once more to speed through the litany of things that needed to be done before the end of the day.
It was slick and soothing -- two rivaling sensations that battled for attention as warm hands continued to knead away the tense knots that had gathered like storm clouds across the expanse of her back. Her mind wasn't drifting so much as it was focusing on the subtle push-pull -- an effort at the delicate balance to diffuse the pools of tension that invariably gathered at her shoulders.
Even as the background hum of Rachmaninoff rose and fell just enough to distract her from further thoughts of the day that had just ended, she frowned (a little) at the prospect of returning to the silent Townhouse. No one was waiting for her, and the Book wouldn't be delivered for several hours yet.
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