Course after course, you've never left the table. You've eaten every color, every flavor. Enjoyed some more than others, but appreciated them all.
The plate is clean, or almost. A trace of sauce remains, that heady mix of blood and wine. If you were not in mixed company, you would lick that plate. As it is, you wipe it with your finger. Miles away from polite, you suck it off.
You are ready for dessert. Smooth, rich, sweet. Not something you need, something you want.