Wrinkles and sun spots that look like liver spots riddle Les’ large hands. Clumsy fingers with splintering yellowed nails tear apart a slice of garlic bread, squeezing the crust and crushing the soft, butter-laden centre and drawing oils and fats onto his fingertips and down his palm. He tears apart the garlic bread and stirs the saucy, meaty remains of lasagne around his plate, collecting the little tomato sauce that is left. He tears apart the garlic bread. 

His hands glisten, deep crevices are levelled to an even surface by creeks of grease. He tears apart the garlic bread, he massages the fats and oils that have dripped down his palms into his hands, he takes a swig from a pint of Guinness, still in its bottle, and leaves smudged fingerprints over the green glass neck as he withdraws his fingers.

He dines with 7, all too full to take another bite of food on their near-empty plates, all watching Les eat out of the corner of their eyes. They chatter about holidays and plans and goals and how delightful the home-cooked lasagne was.