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.
Drabbles in Threes VII
I. 280 words in total; 264 words inside the prompts
Another moment passes, slowly sculpted by her breath. It is a quick huff of impatience against the cold that sneaks into the joints and robs mobility with a secretive turn. There is the barest hint of acknowledgment that disappears with the turn of a neck. The knowing look that is hidden by the facade of insouciance that lingers on boredom. The silence grows comfortable as it absorbs the companionable warmth that emerges.
It's the invisible hum of a home that serves as background, the inherent moaning and rattling that happens as the home and its occupants settle in for the weekend. The subtle creaks and skittering along stairs that reach up four floors as bare feet creep quietly across the hallways in floundering efforts to peek at the entrance of Miranda Priestly without being seen. Muffled gasps are the only sound that suggests someone has been caught mid-clinch -- which it was not. The appearance of Miranda Priestly is nothing surprising, especially since this is her home. Less so, the unexpected sound of laughter that drifts upwards.
There are moments where Miranda imagined that clichéd expressions about eyes that were windows to the soul became that way because it was true more often than not. At the best of times, eyes that might have been almost seal brown remained remarkably guileless and could be read like an open book. Her laughter is like a precious diamond, dazzling in brightness and clarity. It was so tempting to keep it hidden away, from the prying eyes of others, and yet she knows that it is much easier to succumb to temptation and elicit another smile instead. Her most beautiful pages grow distracted, and shiver.
II. 191 words in total; 172 words inside the prompts
It was only by candlelight that her body slowly reclined. The shadows softened the angles that seemed all prickly and sharp during the day. The stress and fatigue of the day is shed quickly, much like the trail of clothing that falls away and is then gathered quickly into a basket. The floral scents begin the long pattern of leaving the fast-paced day for an evening that was dotted with far less in demands on an ever limited amount of time and presence.
The creature comforts of ridiculous thread counts and textures so smooth that a wrong move might have seen an abrupt slide onto the floor were some of the expected sensations that were part of the nightly ritual. It was too easy to skip through the disappointments of the day and focus on the brief moments of happiness. A hint of a smile, the subtle shift of the body that suggested absolute confidence; all these provided a bit of respite from the buffeting queries that suggested that it was far easier to ask others than it was to think for themselves. She slid, exhausted, in a collection of ardent thoughts.
III. 176 words in total; 166 words inside the prompts
Absent, she dreamed, intoxicated and pure. Only in the dark silence did she give free reign to the thoughts that clamoured for her attention during the day and that she flagrantly and habitually ignored. It was much easier to pretend to not notice the straying looks, and the skewed attention that scrambled desperately to focus on matters at hand. Try as she might, it was as if her mind if not her heart was already in tune with someone else -- an invisible tether that tugged for her attention at all times, never relinquishing the strong grip it held.
And so, the nights would pass, and it was as if there was another world in her dreams; one entirely different from her days -- where responsibilities and obligations faded into the background and there was an opportunity to strike a changed measure of balance in her life. It was a luxury rarely afforded to her but she would grasp this moment with both hands and pray that her dreams could be made real. And she loved, loved.
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