Miranda knew she only had herself to blame. This, however, did not soothe her growing amount of self-irritation. As she opened and closed her phone for what had to be the twentieth time in the last half hour she struggled to resist the urge to throw it across the room.
Opening the phone once again, the Editor stared at the single line of words. She surmised it wasn't so much the words that were the problem as it was whom they were directed at. Her frustration grew.
She sighed upon noticing the time - it was late. A decision needed to be made quickly or the intended recipient would not be able meet her - she knew they had a flight the following morning.
Miranda bit the inside of her lip and pressed send. She nervously ground the inside of her lips between her teeth, waiting with baited breath for a response. Not receiving one immediately, she put the phone down on her desk and rose from her seat.
Miranda paused briefly as she stood up. She stared out the glass paneling toward the front of her office. Her gaze rested on the desk that resided in the reception area. It now belonged to someone else, she couldn't remember the girl's name, but it didn't matter – it would always be her desk.
The woman's thoughts were interrupted by the ding of her phone. Without her consent, her heart started to beat faster. She opened her phone, read the message, and smiled.
Gathering her bag and coat she sent her driver a message indicating she was ready to leave and then responded to the other woman's text. She was very pleased, probably too pleased, that the woman had agreed to "make her a drink". The saying had become a "thing" between the two of them. She sent off the location she intended to meet the other woman at and hurried her way to the elevator. For once, she had no intention of being fashionable late.