Andy loved Markets. They resembled free-time to her. On her happiness-barometer they stood right under libraries and puppy's and above cereal commercials. People on markets were not necessarily prettier or better-mooded or more gentle. But the unorganized walking and talking around her made her feel comfortable. And the products always looked a bit more delicious than in the stores. And, there was so much weird… stuff… you could buy on markets. Like anti-dust napkins for your goldfish bowl or tamagotchi's . She smiled inwardly, walking along the different stands searching for the aspect that everybody knew about that markets had: they sold fake, copied design products.

After two hours and nearly three rounds of searching she came to two conclusions:

The bags that she so 'preciously' received from the Queen were not coming from this market.

And probably not from any market, because the bags on the stalls were an insult to the designers they reproduced it from.

'Been around Miranda for too long. Sneering in your thoughts and opinions. And accustomed to a certain standard of quality.' She thought. The conclusions confused Andy a little bit. The bags were obviously not designer, but obviously not thát fake also. What were they then? Not even to mention the why question.

Andy checked her mobile phone and was surprised when a reply from Miranda had appeared.

Dear Andrea,

First, as much as you prefer a boy's name, I'll kindly stick towards your real one. Second, I do not understand why you should bother me with your questions, if I had he information I wouldn't have come to you, now wouldn't I? Third, Why don't you tell me how they appeared in my office every month, after all that is you job and not mine.

Miranda

Andy laughed. And felt pain. It was typically Miranda, to be stern and harsh, to sweep you away with just a few letters or sounds or even a glare, to make you feel small. But she gladly noticed she had not lost the ability to read the woman. Delivering the information she needed, only wrapped up in some difficult shiny insult like an mirror maze you need to go through in order to get to the treasure. The words of the e-mail lingered in the air, especially the word dear. Miranda thought about every single move she made, like a permanent game of chess with every atom in her surroundings. She could not have accidentally typed it wrong. She felt warm liquid flowing through her chest, but also a sharp cutting, she wouldn't have worked so hard to regain herself in the last months to just let that crumble away by one 'dear'. She was stronger than that, gained trust in herself in the time that was probably as dark as the middle ages. And twice as long. The had in a cold-turkey way learned that, if Miranda was hypothetically hit by a car and Miranda would die, that it would hurt, beyond measurable proportions, but she would live. She was not physically attached to Miranda, nor did they share the same body. She would hypothetically survive. But the question was ever, did she want to be without Miranda? Would she take this… situation, whatever it was… as an opportunity to try to gain traces of her, to produce memory's and label them as valuable? Or would she choose the hold-your-breath-and-wait-till-it-is-over tactic? She hadn't thought about it, but before diving further in this she would need to decide. As a second peace of armour.

So she would not answer the e-mail yet. Of course there was enough work at the Mirror waiting for her to be written and the market stroll had been an entertaining and quite informative activity, but it was not pay-check-work and her boss wouldn't be too happy if he found out. She was, after all, new and had not yet the freedom to write about anything coming up in her mind.

Andy went back to the office, finishing her article and answering her work-emails till evening approached. At 7 PM She was ready to go home, but got a little stuck with the ever presence of those leather little scoops. She could almost feel the way they grinned their open-zipped grins to her, like the sarcastic snarls of the White woman. She could not leave them behind, tomorrow everybody would be there for the morning-meeting and that would raise unwanted questions. But to take them home… All of them…

Well. Again, she hadn't really a choice. She'd have to take them with her. Grabbing the bags and walking to the subway she felt like Mirada's assistant all over again. Accept for that she wasn't holding a fortune on bags, she was holding fake bags. Just as fake as her non-existent (work)relationship with Miranda.