She was clutching the amber folds of her sari so it wouldn’t drag on the floor, but not enough so you could see her feet, or even tell if she had any, so that
she seemed to float into the reception at the School of International Affairs on air, an elegant swirl she must have practiced across years of being the rare woman in a universe of leaders in pants.
She dished off the heavy pages of her thick speech to some underling and clasped the greedy hands of the faculty and students, thanking them for inviting her, and yes, it was an honor, and it’s always a pleasure to be in New York, and you are too kind, and yes, that was a passage from the Bhagavad Gita, and oh, Mr. Ambassador, this must be your charming wife!
