A/N: So, we all probably have someone we've thought of as a Miranda, whether it's a teacher, boss, or whatever. A few years ago, I used to tease my coworkers that our boss was like Miranda (they obvs didn't see it, if they even knew who she was, but anyway). I heard some news about her recently, and, well, that's what inspired this story. I know the general theme has been done plenty of times before, but I felt the need to write this one. Enjoy, please r/r!

Emily always arrived early on Mondays. She enjoyed having the time to herself in the office to prepare for the week and handle any emergencies from the weekend. Today, Miranda was already in the office when Emily arrived, and her door was closed: two signs that this would not be a good day. Emily did as much as she could, but at 8am when the new second assistant came in with Miranda's Starbucks, Emily knew she would need to interrupt Miranda.

Softly knocking, she waited for a response before entering, carefully balancing the scalding latte, bottle of Pellegrino and water glass, and eight magazines. Miranda's chair was turned towards the windows, a notepad in her lap. Emily quickly set the coffee and water on the desk and spread out the magazines, slipping out as if she were never there.

Well this is quite strange, she thought. Usually when Miranda was in a foul mood, she was more, uh, vocal about things. Suddenly Emily wondered if she should have inquired about her health, as it was so out of the ordinary.

About two hours later, Miranda called Emily on the phone and asked her to call Roy. Emily thought her voice sounded strained, but convinced herself she was looking into things, that nothing was wrong. Fifteen minutes later, Roy arrived and Emily called Miranda to let her know. Second assistant Jill (or was it Jess?) had her coat and bag ready, but something was different today. Miranda stopped and let Jill help her put her coat on. She walked more slowly to the elevator. She was wearing her Dolce & Gabbana clear/black wide-rimmed glasses, and, if Emily looked closely, all the makeup in the world couldn't hide the swollen skin underneath Miranda's eyes.

Miranda stepped into the elevator, leaving the floor in silence. She didn't care where Roy drove her, she just needed to get away from Runway and clear her mind. After driving for hours through Central Park and back and forth across several bridges, Roy informed Miranda that he would need to stop for gas if she would like to continue further. She checked her watch: 2:30pm. "No, that's all. Back to Runway," she said.

When she returned, everyone held their breath. It was unlike Miranda to go anywhere without sunglasses, let alone wearing her reading glasses. Tossing her coat at Jill, Miranda leaned over to Emily, staring down at Emily's desk. "Please gather everyone in the conference room at 3pm. We need to talk about our 2007 plans."

"Yes, Miranda, of course," Emily said, and Miranda headed back into her office, again shutting the door. Those thirty minutes moved agonizingly slowly, until finally, Emily knocked.

"Miranda, it's 3pm and everyone is in the conference room," she said.

Miranda opened the door and nodded, gesturing for Emily to run along and join the others. The chatter of voices grew silent as Miranda approached the room. Everyone was crowded, but Miranda knew this would not take long. Taking a deep breath, she entered the room and shut the door behind her.

Her expert eyes scanned the room, seeing nothing but genuine interest, sincerity, passion in the eyes staring back at her. Miranda took another deep breath and held out her notepad. As she stared at the words on the page, she felt her emotions take over once again, tears flowing freely. She knew she must look ridiculous, but in that moment, it didn't matter.

"I want to thank you all for your hard work and dedication—both to me and this magazine—in the past years, or for some of you, decades. Runway has been a leading fashion magazine in the industry for years. We have educated the public and exposed celebrities. We have offered original reporting on the darker side of the fashion industry and provided our advertisers and designers with a place to call home."

Miranda paused, once again, overcome with tears.

"Today, I want to say thank you to each and every one of you for every little thing you've done—and don't think anything has gone unnoticed here. Yesterday, I was informed that the powers-that-be have deemed Runway no longer a profitable business model for Elias-Clarke Publications, effective immediately. This means,…"

She paused as her sobbing grew out of control, but she knew it wouldn't get any better, so she continued.

"This means that we have published the final issue of Runway magazine. Other Elias-Clarke Publications will be offering interviews for a number of positions as they recognize the talent of our staff—"

Miranda couldn't finish. She handed the notepad to Emily to finish reading as she turned her back to the room and choked back her sobs.

"Our positions have been terminated. You will all be compensated through the end of the month, and should you have any questions, please direct them to Irv Ravitz and the Elias-Clarke Board of Directors. Again, I thank each and every one of you for doing such a fine job over the years. You have made me so proud. Thank you."

Emily's hands shook. Staring at the notepad, reading those words in Miranda's own handwriting, it was too real for her. She turned to Miranda and handed her the notepad. Silence hung thick in the air like a plague, and Miranda marched out of the room.

When everyone had grasped what was happening, some of them began crying, others hurrying to get a resume together, hoping for a position at Auto Universe or Outdoor Living. When Emily and Jill returned to their desks, Miranda's coat and bag were gone. Her notebook torn in half and dropped in the wastebasket.

Emily wanted to send an email to Jacqueline Follet, who she had befriended during New York Fashion Week two years ago, and ask if she was in need of an assistant. But, before she did that, she picked up the phone and called someone who would care about this—someone who got out just in time.

"Hi Em, what's up?" she said, answering her telephone at the New York Mirror.

"Andrea. It's bad. Runway is gone. We're all terminated. Miranda, too."

"What? You're kidding?"

"No, Andrea. The Board decided we were no longer profitable. Miranda called a meeting. She was sobbing. Literally. I had to finish reading her remarks."

"What do you think you'll do, Em?"

"I'm going to email Jacqueline, and if that doesn't pan out, well, I'll find something. I can always go back across the pond."

"Oh, Em, I'm so sorry. What about Miranda?"

"Honestly, I'm worried. I've never seen her this upset. She's in a bad place."

"Maybe I should come visit…like I just happened by to say hello or something?" Andrea said.

"Seriously? I can't think of why she'd want to see you—you'd just be a reminder that you left the company before it collapsed. Plus, she went home….I think."

"Well, it's been what, seven months?"

"Andrea, you never did listen to me, so I'm not going to bother. Just know that this is beyond what you might ever expect."

"Thanks, Em. Thanks for calling. Let me know if I can do anything."

"I may be crashing on your couch in a few weeks, but other than that, I'm good for now. Andrea, be careful."

"Thanks, Em. I know," she said, hanging up. "Hey John," Andrea called as she stepped into her Editor's office. "Something personal has just come up, and I need to take the rest of the day off."

"Is everything alright, Sachs?"

"I think so. I just need to check it out. I'll let you know later today if I'll be out tomorrow as well."

"Okay, I don't see any conflicts. Your next story isn't due for a few days, and we can easily reassign it if we need to."

"Thank you— I'll be in touch," she said as she ran back to her desk and hastily packed her things.

Andrea hailed a cab as soon as she exited the building, and gave the driver Miranda's address. Her mind was racing as she tried to imagine Miranda actually crying (not like Paris), or Miranda with any real emotion at all, not directed at her girls, of course. Minutes later, she was paying the cab driver and climbing the steps to the townhouse. She rang the bell several times, and knocked, but there was no response. Andrea texted Roy and once he confirmed that Miranda was, indeed home, she pulled out the key she never returned and let herself into Miranda's home.

Shutting the front door, she called out softly, "Miranda?" No one answered, but she heard running water in the first floor bathroom, so she took steps further into the house. The door was cracked, so Andrea softly knocked, "Miranda? It's me, Andy Sachs."

"Wha—what are you doing here?" she called, her voice dry and raspy.

"Miranda, I just thought you might want to talk or something. I always did like you, believe it or not."

Miranda softly kicked the door open and looked up into Andrea's eyes. She was sitting on the floor against the shower, her knees pulled up to her chest. "Speech," she said between gulps of air, "has been difficult today."

"It's okay," Andrea reassured her. "Can I get you a glass of water or can I help you up?"

Miranda nodded and accepted Andrea's hand. She turned, placing her palms on the bathroom vanity while Andrea quickly retrieved water from the kitchen. When she returned, Miranda was sitting on the couch in the den, her knees again clenched tightly to her chest. Andrea handed her the water and sat on the sofa with her. Reaching her hand out, she softly placed her hand on Miranda's arm. "Runway was my baby," Miranda said. "I made that magazine what it is. Elias-Clarke is in financial trouble, and just to spite me, they eliminate us."

"What will you do?" Andrea asked.

Miranda looked up at Andrea again, "I—I don't know. That was all I had," she said, setting down her empty glass and taking Andrea's hand tightly in her own.

"That's not true," Andrea said. "Miranda, you are gorgeous and intelligent and a cunning businesswoman. You will come back from this."

Miranda eyed the young woman curiously. "You think so?" she asked.

"Of course," Andrea said, squeezing her hand tightly and reaching her other arm around the woman's shoulders.

Miranda paused, closing her eyes. "Andrea," she said, her eyes still shut, "Why are you here? It's been six months. What do you want from me?"

Andrea pulled away and released Miranda's hand. "I don't want anything, Miranda," she said. "I'm here as a friend."

"Andrea, you are not my friend. You left us. Maybe we can have coffee next week or something." The last thing Miranda wanted was to sit and entertain a former employee. She had spent the past eighteen hours crying—no, sobbing—and she was utterly exhausted, mind and body.

"Please try to trust me, here," Andrea said. "If I wanted to hurt you, don't you think I would have said or done something earlier? Miranda, I've always liked you. I didn't agree 100%, but I have always respected you." She paused for a moment before continuing. "It killed me to leave in Paris. That's why I stayed away for so long. And now," she said, her voice trailing, "when I heard, I was worried."

"Honestly, I'm too exhausted to think straight right now, Andrea. I am going upstairs," she said, stretching out her legs before walking towards the staircase. Andrea rose and walked to meet the former editor. She put her hand gently on the small of Miranda's back.

Miranda froze and stopped, one foot on the first step, her hand on the banister. "Miranda," Andrea said, "I'm not leaving. I want you to rest, and I'll stay here to help out in any way I can."

Miranda continued up the stairs, her right hand reaching up to shield her eyes as tears streamed down. The pair walked to Miranda's room in silence. Quickly, she turned to stare at Andrea. "Stop following me," she hissed. "I am barely tolerating your presence as it is. I am not going to shatter." The truth was, it had always been difficult for Miranda to accept help. Whether it was someone complimenting her or offering her a tissue, help made her feel weak and fragile.

Andrea nodded and took a step backwards, pulling her hands to her sides. "Of course you're not, Miranda," she said, "I'll go make you some tea or something while you get comfortable."

Miranda said nothing and Andrea returned to the kitchen and turned the kettle on while she looked through the cabinets for a light snack. Upstairs, Miranda slipped off her blouse and skirt and removed her undergarments, leaving only her pale blue silk slip. She walked over to the window and pulled the shade shut before climbing into bed. Lying there, alone, in the dark in the middle of the afternoon, her emotions once again overwhelmed her and she quietly began crying into her pillow.

Andrea fixed a tray with hot tea, a piece of toast and honey, and some apple slices and carried it up to Miranda's room. When she entered, she noticed Miranda sobbing into the pillow. She set the tray on the small table along the wall, and for once, Andrea stopped thinking and simply let herself react. She crawled onto the bed, curling up behind Miranda, wrapping the woman in her arms. She didn't say a word as she stroked her hair, brushing it out of her face. She held her tightly, letting her cry.

After a short while, Miranda turned to face Andrea. It was quite obvious to her that Andrea had meant well, and that she was actually trying to be a good friend. She regretted snapping at the young woman earlier, but she had no way of knowing how to deal with a situation like this…to know that she actually did need someone to hold her, to keep her from shattering.

Miranda reached over and draped her arm across Andrea's body, resting her head on the young woman's shoulder. For the first time in the past twenty-four hours, and frankly, the past year, she felt safe. She felt like she could close her eyes and relax. She worried that she would scare Andrea away, so she simply closed her eyes and tried to rest.

Miranda slept soundly for hours, so much that Andrea allowed herself to close her eyes, too. She woke when she felt Miranda shifting in the bed. "Hi," Andrea said, trying to read the other woman's mood.

"Hi," Miranda whispered as she smiled at Andrea—a wide, bright-eyed smile. In that moment, Andrea knew she made the right decision to come to Miranda's. Andrea's eyes followed Miranda as she sat up and began walking towards the bathroom. Andrea sat up, but Miranda gestured for her to wait while she slipped into the bathroom.

Andrea was leaning against the headboard when Miranda returned. The older woman sat on the edge of the bed with her back to Andrea, arching her back, stretching her aching muscles. "I owe you an apology," she said quietly. "I was feeling vulnerable earlier. And, naturally, being as stubborn as I am, I find it uncomfortable to ask for help."

"Miranda—" Andrea began.

"No, I need to continue," she said. "Two things: first, thank you…so much. Next—and whatever your answer, I'm still grateful you came over—did you mean what you said about wanting to be a friends, that you did actually like me?"

Andrea smiled, "Of course I meant that! I wouldn't lie to you, especially not while all this is going on. And, you're welcome."

"I'm sorry, it's just a lot to grasp at the moment," she said. "I thought—I thought you hated me. I always felt that you were just gritting your teeth and doing your job because of your work ethic, but that you couldn't wait to be free from me… That's why I didn't try to contact you after you left."

Andrea sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, sitting next to Miranda. "It was quite the contrary, Miranda. I stayed, I pushed myself, I was the best assistant I could be because it was for you. I would have done anything to please you. I left because I felt that I could no longer be of use to you. You appeared to have already decided who I was and what I wanted. Seeing what you did to Nigel, who was actually a good friend for many years, I realized you could do that to me, at any time, and I would have been devastated."

"Andrea, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's the past. I'm a better person now—I'm stronger, I'm confident, and I'm more assertive. You actually taught me a lot."

"Well, I think we can see that you're assertive," Miranda said, chuckling. "I'm sorry for seeming suspicious, but people don't often offer to be my friend unless they want something in return."

"I can understand that. But with me, it's easy: I just missed you. I missed being around you, listening to you complain about your Starbucks not being hot enough or listening to you berate someone for doing something you asked them to do. Personally, that was always my favorite because there was a split second when the realization that the person did exactly what you asked would cross your face, and then you'd brush it off like they were out of their mind and no one ever questioned you. It's truly brilliant."

"Andrea, I will not have you mocking me in my own home," Miranda protested.

"Relax. That's what I love about you—you're so serious, but to anyone who is paying attention, you're really just having fun screwing with people."

Miranda turned to look at Andrea, wide-eyed and speechless.

"I'm sorry—I should not have said that," Andrea said, not realizing Miranda was not upset, just caught up on 'that's what I love about you.'

"One last question," Miranda said. "Did you mean it when you said I was gorgeous, sexy, and smart?"

This time, Andrea blushed. "Yes," she said, her voice very small. "I told you I wouldn't lie."

Miranda nodded. "I owe you another apology, Andrea. I once called you a 'smart, fat girl,' but you need to know I was only frustrated. You are smart, but you are also very beautiful, and perfectly proportioned, so much more so than the models. I'm sorry I never told you that sooner."

Andrea smiled back at Miranda. "Did you miss me after I left?"

Miranda froze. How could she answer this question? She had been busy as usual with magazine business, but not a day went by that she didn't wish to see Andrea walk through her office door. "In the spirit of truth, yes, I did miss you. Very much so, in fact."

The two women sat there, in silence, for quite some time. The sun began creeping into the room despite the heavy shades. Miranda asked if Andrea needed to be at work, and she explained she had taken a few personal days. Miranda decided she was not going back to Runway, not for a long time.

"Andrea, do you have plans today? I was thinking perhaps you could stick around and we could catch up?"

"Miranda, I'd love to. I need to swing by my apartment for a tiny bit, though."

"Of course, no rush," Miranda said.

Andrea smiled as she left Miranda's place, but as the cool air hit her face, she realized she needed the time away from the woman to sort out her thoughts. Being in Miranda's presence again (and closer than ever before), after so many months, stirred emotions inside she wasn't quite prepared to deal with. Emotions that had been running strong by the time she was in Paris. Emotions she struggled to suppress for months.

Once in her apartment, Andrea sat on the couch and took a deep breath. She couldn't deny that she was still attracted to Miranda, perhaps more now than ever. Today, for the first time in the course of their relationship—friendship?—Miranda let her walls collapse and wasn't concerned with putting them back up. She was raw, pure. It was that side of Miranda, the away-from-Runway side, that she first grew to adore. She needed to make a decision before returning to the townhouse: did she want to be Miranda's friend, or did she want something more?

"What am I talking about?!" she groaned aloud, flopping back onto the cushions. "Why would I think Miranda could be interested in something more? She's had three husbands!" Andrea shouted aloud in the empty room. In all her experience, Miranda had never so much as batted an eye towards another female.

That settles it, she thought. Friendship it would be, and she would be the best damn friend Miranda ever had.

Around 11am, Andrea decided she was ready to head back to Miranda's. She tried texting Miranda, but her cell phone was off. Dialing her house phone number, Andrea waited. With each unanswered ring, her irrational fears went wild. Please, please just answer, she thought. "Hello?" Miranda finally answered, sounding out of breath.

"Miranda? Am I interrupting something?"

"No, no. Andrea. I had been resting…sleeping, that is."

"I'm sorry to wake you. I was calling to see if it was a good time to come back, but if you're sleeping, I don't want to bother you. I can bring dinner by later or something."

"No, I have the rest of my life to rest, Andrea. I will welcome your company anytime. Whenever you'd like to come over, and you may stay as long as you wish."

Andrea felt her emotions rising. Quickly reminding herself that Miranda was a straight woman dealing with loss, Andrea remembered not to take advantage of Miranda in this vulnerable state. Miranda was not implying she wanted Andrea to stay the night so she could ravish her, she simply didn't want to be alone. "I'll be over shortly, then," she said. "Can I bring anything? Have you eaten lunch?"

"Actually, I haven't eaten anything—lunch sounds wonderful. Do you mind? I can always send out for something?"

"Don't be silly," Andrea said, "I'll pick up something on my way. See you soon," she said.

"Yes, see you soon," Miranda said, slowly hanging the phone up. She knew she needed to shower before the young woman arrived. After the hot shower and spending time styling her hair and applying some light makeup, she felt more like herself. Except, she thought, that I'm looking forward to spending the day with my former assistant. Miranda shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. It was insane. She was fifty years old, with two preteen children, thrice married and divorced, and at the moment, unemployed. Why would Andrea want to spend time with me? she thought. And on top of that, she knew Andrea recently had a boyfriend, and she just didn't seem as transparent about her sexuality as other young women her age like Emily and Serena were. But all I can think about is her long arms wrapped around me, her divine, calming scent, those beautiful brown eyes, those soft, plump lips….

Just then, the phone rang again, "Yes?" Miranda answered impatiently, silently cursing the caller on the other end for such impertinence to interrupt her daydreaming.

"Miranda, there are a lot of reporters and photographers waiting outside your door—do you have a back entrance?"

"Oh, gosh. I haven't even thought about the press. I imagine the whole world knows by now. Um, yes, if you can come in through the back, that would be fine. There is a small alley—I'll meet you at the back gate to let you in."

"Thanks. See you in two minutes," Andrea said before hanging up the phone. It hadn't occurred to her, either, that the press would be so eager to pry into this personal moment of Miranda's life, but then again, they never much respected social norms.

Andrea quickly hurried down the alley and Miranda opened the gate as soon as she saw her approach, not wanting any members of the press to discover this rear entrance she'd kept secret for so many years. Following Miranda inside, the younger woman had to admire her looks. She was certainly more put together today, wearing a casual red crew-neck sweater dress and patterned tights. Andrea could still see the puffiness in her eyes, but light makeup covered it well, and to the untrained eye, it looked like Miranda simply hadn't applied much makeup today. Regardless, she looked gorgeous.

"Is there something you want to say?" Miranda finally said, interrupting Andrea's thoughts and drawing her eyes upward.

"Oh, um, yes, you're looking better. How are you doing?" she asked, setting their lunch on the table and taking Miranda's hands in her own.

"Well, better than yesterday, that's for sure. But I can't stay locked up in here forever," Miranda said.

"I know you probably don't want to hear this, but this will all blow over. You'll find something else and this will be water under the bridge."

"Oh Andrea, I hardly think that will be the case. Plus," she said, hesitating before she continued, "I don't think I want to 'find something else' as you put it." She pulled her hands from Andrea's grip and clasped them together. "But now, let's eat. I'm famished."

Andrea smiled and pulled the contents of her bag out. "Well, we have two strawberry milkshakes, two double-stack cheeseburgers with lots of lettuce and tomato, and an order of fries to share."

Miranda froze in place, her eyes widened at the options Andrea presented. "I'm supposed to eat that?! Where on earth do you find these things, Andrea?"

"To answer your question, yes, and at Burger Joint in the Parker Meridien. Trust me, it's delicious, and a little splurge once a—what, once a year—never hurt anyone. Also, it's fantastic hangover food, and I imagine after all that dehydration yesterday, you probably feel like you threw back a few too many."

Miranda was curiously appalled at Andrea's sudden level of comfort around her. They hadn't seen each other in six months, and then she shows up and holds her while she cries after losing her magazine, and now this.

"So, will you please eat with me?" Andrea asked impatiently. Miranda nodded and sat at the counter with the younger girl.

She wasn't lying, these burgers were delicious. It had been probably ten years since Miranda indulged in a greasy burger and fries, and the milkshake, which she could tell was made with almond milk and fresh strawberries, was perfection. Miranda moaned in delight as she finished her burger and licked her fingers clean, unaware of Andrea's gaze.

"I seem to have underestimated you, my dear. That was quite an adequate lunch selection," Miranda said.

"Uh, I could tell. You were practically orgasmic over there as you sucked the juices out of that burger."

Blush crept up Miranda's face. She quickly cleaned up the cartons and placed them in the trash. "It was not orgasmic, Andrea. Copacetic, perhaps, but I've had better."

Andrea felt her muscles tighten in between her legs. Was Miranda flirting with her? No way, she had to be imagining it, looking into things. Andrea finished her food and tossed the containers as well, washing her hands in the sink like any civilized person, and taking her milkshake with her as she followed Miranda to the den. They each took a seat on opposite ends of the sofa, Andrea tucking her legs underneath her body, while Miranda laid against the armrest and faced Andrea, her legs bent at the knees.

"So," Andrea said, "do you really not want to find anything else?"

Miranda sighed. "Andrea, I don't know. I'm old. I think about starting another magazine or fashion blog or something, but then I remember how much work it was starting Runway, and I just can't put 100+ hour work weeks in anymore. Plus, anything new always brings with it the risk of failure, and, well, my ego is already bruised as it is."

"Miranda, you have no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed. If anything, you went out on top. Just because those assholes on the board think fashion is frivolous, you and I both know that it's not, and the primary reason is because of the work you've done as Editor in Chief to make fashion mainstream, to make it something every woman or man can achieve."

While Andrea spoke, Miranda wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned her body against the high back of the sofa. "You make it sound like such a grand, historical event," Miranda said. "Regardless, I couldn't handle that again. I couldn't imagine," she paused, "retiring or quitting or, god forbid, failing."

Andrea saw the tears forming in Miranda's eyes once again. "So, don't start something. Give back in some other way," she said.

Miranda eyes Andrea closely, her eyes questioning the young woman's thoughts.

"What I mean," Andrea said, "is to go to work for a charity, or better yet, why don't you and Donatella or James start a charity. There's so many opportunities…look at what Tom's shoes does."

Andrea smiled as she saw a spark in Miranda's eyes. "Yes…I suppose I could look into something like that…"

"You're welcome," she said, bowing her head.

"Thank you," Miranda said, sitting up and reaching for Andrea's hands, "But I'm just not ready. I—it's—one day—and then—I can't—" Miranda stammered, choking back tears.

Andrea placed her hand underneath Miranda's chin, softly drawing her eyes upward. Gazing into her eyes, Andrea couldn't help but caress the older woman's cheek, wiping her tears before trailing her hand down her jaw and neck. "Miranda, take a deep breath. You don't have to do anything until you're ready," Andrea reassured her. Miranda took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Andrea decided to take a different approach. "You know," she said, "it breaks my heart to see you like this."

Miranda leaned back against Andrea and tried to get comfortable. Andrea slid her feet out and guided Miranda to lay her head on her lap. "It breaks my heart, too," Miranda said. "I always thought I would be prepared, have time to fix things or something." Miranda sighed and covered her face with her hands. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said.

Andrea softly took Miranda's wrists and pulled her hands from her face, lying her hands across her lap. "No more," she said, her thumb moving back and forth along the back of Miranda's hand. Miranda lay there on her back for several minutes, neither woman saying a word. Miranda had fallen asleep, and Andrea tried to remain as still as possible while the other woman rested. Nearly an hour had passed, and Miranda was still asleep. Andrea noticed her breathing deeper, and noticed a strained expression on her face as she began writhing on the couch. She turned to her side, curling up into a ball and drawing her hand over her eyes as she began whimpering.

Recognizing what must be a nightmare, Andrea took Miranda's shoulders firmly as she called out for Miranda to wake up. "Miranda, please, it's just a dream," she said as she softly shook the woman awake.

Miranda woke with a soft gasp, her eyes frantically scanning the room. She clutched Andrea tightly, the younger woman softly stroking her back as she calmed down. "Shh, you're okay," she repeated as she whispered into Miranda's ear.

Andrea helped Miranda up into a sitting position, and Miranda wrapped her arms tightly around Andrea. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on. I don't understand why this is happening."

"It's okay, Miranda. You've been through a lot in the past two days. It's understandable. But it's going to be okay."

"I don't know how I would get through this without you, darling," Miranda said. "I don't think you quite understand just what you do for me."

Andrea smiled. If she only knew what she did to me, she thought. "Miranda? Do you think you'd like me to schedule some time with your therapist? Or, maybe do you have some Valium or Xanax you can take to help you relax?"

Miranda nodded. "Yes, I think maybe it's time to medicate," she said, leaning against Andrea.

"Would you like me to go get something for you?"

"No, it's upstairs. I need to stretch, anyway."

Andrea nodded and helped Miranda up off the couch. Miranda slipped her arm around Andrea's waist, and Andrea immediately reciprocated. Miranda recalled her earlier thoughts, but decided she was going to stay as close as the young woman would allow.

Upstairs, Miranda retrieved her Valium and took two with a large glass of water. It'd been years since she last needed to take Valium, surprisingly, she first obtained the prescription to help her relax during sex with her last marriage. Miranda chuckled at the memory, realizing how different women were from men, how much easier life was with Andrea than any of her husbands. She stepped out of her bedroom, meeting Andrea in the second-floor study.

Andrea was browsing the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the walls. "Miranda, I never knew you had such a fabulous library. This is amazing," Andrea said as she carefully perused the titles on the shelves, her fingertips barely grazing over their spines.

Miranda sank into her royal blue wingback oversized chair, propping her feet on the matching ottoman. A smile crossed her lips as she watched Andrea, delighted with the books. "Andrea, make yourself at home, please. Pour yourself a drink, read a book, go through my desk, anything."

Andrea turned around and saw Miranda lounging in the chair. She looked so small, but Andrea was glad that she decided to rest in the study rather than in her bedroom. Returning to the bookshelves, she made a note to ask Miranda how they were organized. If she had to guess, it looked simply like they were in the order in which they were obtained. Andrea knew people who meticulously arranged their books alphabetically by author. Her own meager collection was grouped according to the Library of Congress catalog system (alphabetically by subject), but Miranda's was scattered, no apparent rhyme or reason. But that was the beauty. One would expect a strict organizational pattern, like everything else in Miranda's life, but there was something special about the books. Suddenly, Andrea saw a book of Leonard Cohen's collected poems. The spine was worn, the cover nearly non-existent, but Andrea would recognize that book anywhere. Apparently, Miranda enjoyed it too.

Looking over, she saw Miranda was lounging with her eyes closed. Andrea poured herself a drink and sat on the small chair by the window as she opened the book and began reading.

"Andrea," Miranda called after several minutes, "what are you reading?" she asked, her eyes remaining closed.

"Flowers for Hitler*," Andrea said.

Miranda's lips curled upwards. Opening her eyes, she said, "will you read aloud, darling?"

Andrea nodded and turned to the next poem.

Let me renew myself
in the midst of all the things of the world
which cannot be connected.
The sky is empty at last,
the stars stand for themselves,
heroes and their history passed
like talk on the wind, like bells.

"Andrea," Miranda called, "come closer."

She stood and walked across the room towards Miranda, sitting on the ottoman next to Miranda's feet. She continued reading,

Flowers do not stand for love,
or if they do—not mine.
The white happens beside the mauve.
I have no laws to bind
their hunger to my own.
The same, the same, the doctors say.
for they find themselves alone:
the bread of law is dry.

Miranda softly moved her foot along Andrea's thigh. "Come here," she said as she motioned to the space on the couch next to her. Andrea stood and squeezed into the chair next to Miranda. Miranda adjusted her position, twisting to her side and curling up against the younger woman. Miranda reached over and took the book from Andrea, gently letting it fall to the ground next to the chair. Miranda began reciting the poem from memory, her hand slowly trailing up Andrea's leg, tracing the seam of her denim jeans from the knee to her hot center while she nibbled at Andrea's neck between words.

I walked over the mountain with my glass dog.
The mushrooms trembled and balls of rain
fell off their roofs.
I whistled at the trees to come closer:
they jumped at the chance:
apples, acorns popped through the air.
Dandelions by the million
staggered into parachutes. A white jeweled
wind in the shape of an immense spool of gauze
swaddled every moving limb.
I collapsed slowly over the water-filled pebbles.

Miranda's lips brushed against the sensitive skin beneath Andrea's ear. She was no longer reciting the poem. Andrea was holding her breath, torn between wanting Miranda to remove her hand and wanting her to rub harder.

"Miranda," Andrea finally gasped, grabbing the woman's shoulder's and pushing her away. "Are you sure you want to be doing this?"

Miranda looked Andrea in the eye, her smile fading. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put you in this position," Miranda said, trying to pull away from Andrea's grasp.

"No, Miranda, don't be sorry," Andrea said, "I just want to make sure you know what you're doing."

"Andrea, I feel dead inside. After the letter from the Board, it felt like a nail in my coffin. I just need to feel alive, Andrea," she said, "I need you."

And Andrea wanted Miranda, but she worried she wanted her too much. She was in love with the beautiful woman curled up against her, and she worried she would scare Miranda away if she said too much. "Miranda, open your eyes, look at me," she said.

Miranda opened her eyes and Andrea desperately tried to convey to her just how deep her feelings were. Slowly, Miranda nodded ever-so-slightly, and leaned in to kiss Andrea's cheek, softly whispering, "I love you, too."

Andrea gasped at Miranda's whispered confession, and the older woman caught her mouth, pressing their lips together as her tongue snaked inside the younger woman's hot, soft mouth. Andrea moaned into Miranda's sweet lips, and Miranda frantically worked her hands to unbutton Andrea's blouse. They parted, both needing air.

"Miranda," Andrea panted, concerned that they should slow down. Miranda softly pressed her index finger to Andrea's lips as she slid her hands down Andrea's body.

Nearly an hour later, both women lay on their backs, nude, on the carpet, clothes scattered nearby. Andrea reached over and gowned Miranda's hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing softly.

"Andrea," she whispered, "I'm tired."

"Me too," Andrea replied.

"Come to bed with me?" she asked.

"I'd love to," Andrea said, smiling as she sat up. She pulled a throw off the nearby couch and wrapped it around them as they walked, arm-in-arm to the bedroom. As they approached the bed, Andrea stopped. Miranda turned around and looked at her.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Miranda, I love you," Andrea said.

Miranda smiled. "I know. I love you, too."

"You're amazing, do you know that?"

"Hmm," Miranda said, climbing into bed, "why don't you come here? You can keep telling me that all evening if you'd like."

"Oh," Andrea said, "believe me, I intend to do just that."