And she did feast, but not in one place and never from one of the plates. She hated the plates, the white-and-blue forspecials . She didn’t know why and didn’t care to know. What she cared about was the food. She walked along the table like a woman at the world’s grandest buffet, taking things with her fingers and tossing them into her mouth, sometimes chewing meat hot and tender right off the bone before slinging the joints back onto their serving platters. A few times she missed these and the chunks of meat would go rolling across the white linen tablecloth, leaving splotches of juice in nosebleed stains. One of these rolling roasts overturned a gravy-boat. One smashed a crystal serving dish filled with cranberry jelly. A third rolled clean off the far side of the table, where Mia heard something drag it underneath. There was a brief, squealing squabble, followed by a howl of pain as something sank its teeth into something else. Then silence. It was brief, though, and soon broken by Mia’s laughter. She wiped her greasy fingers on her bosom, doing it slowly. Enjoying the way the stains of the mixed meats and juices spread on the expensive silk. Enjoying the ripening curves of her breasts and the feel of her nipples under her fingertips, rough and hard and excited.

She made her way slowly down the table, talking to herself in many voices, creating a kind of lunatic chitchat.

How they hangin, honey?

Oh they hanging just fine, thank you so much for asking, Mia.

Do you really believe that Oswald was working alone when he shot Kennedy?

Never in a million years, darling— that was a CIA job the whole way. Them, or those honky millionaires from the Alabama steel crescent.

Bombingham, Alabama, honey, ain’t it the truth?

Have you heard the new Joan Baez record?

My God, yes, doesn’t she sing like an angel? I hear that she and Bob Dylan are going to get themselves married…