They eat and smile and moan and writhe in orgasmic undulations of the palate. The wine is quaffed, the bread is broken, the Sauce pours and pours and pours in gushing streams of warmth and placating blissful balm. The company inhales it by the gutful, soaking their souls and forgetting past ills, future commitments, present sorrows and all things extraneous. The Sauce is a mandala of Cosmos and an edible trance. They sit and stare with stupid, laconic grins at the piles of empty dishes which cover the enormous table from one end to the other.
Someone chuckles almost inaudibly.
Another sighs and puts his head down on the table atop his arms. The dining room seems to be under water, or in a dense blue fog which muffles both sound and movement. Another guest attempts to sit up straight, but fails, slides further into their chair, and throws Angelo a feeble kiss. Angelo is sitting at the head of the table, chin in palms. But it's almost midnight, bro.