At church on Sunday the ambassador inserted himself next to me, where my husband usually sat. None of us commented on it, but Violet took up her usual place on my other side. As the sermon began, his leg pressed against mine, nudged harder, purposeful. Flesh braced against flesh. I recognized the scent of the ambassador’s sweat from their pillows. On my other side, Violet took my hand. Her fingers went to my pulse. Your heartbeat is so fast, she whispered. You’re not well. I looked straight ahead. She put her arm around me to reach him, to stroke his shoulder with her fingertips.
