The Navajo woman accepted my offer of a lift to the reservation, but didn't seem inclined to say much more. I noticed a look of ill-disguised disapproval as she got in the car, lingering for a moment on my exposed cleavage, but that was all - she gazed stonily ahead while the car pulled away, leaving a trail of hot Nevada dust in the rear view mirror.
After a few failed attempts at small talk, and my knowledge of her culture exhausted, I kept quiet, and concentrated instead on the evening ahead: a quick bath before Jim returned from work, followed by a dinner with Michael, his boss, at Bon Vivant, the new French restaurant.
The Navajo woman eyed the silk-wrapped bottle of expensive Cabernet Sauvignon I'd bought, as it rattled gently on the dashboard, and said, ’What is in parcel?’
Though a bit surprised by her directness, I was pleased at the conversation, and I replied, ’A bottle of wine - I got it for my husband.’
She nodded thoughtfully, seeming to approve, and then replied, ’A good trade.’