Sweat drips down my neck. Afternoon sun filters through the orchard branches at Fifine’s guinguette. Me, Maurice, scything grass under the apple trees. Marcel beside me, finally strong after his fever. His shirt clings, damp. Muscles flex as he swings the blade. Our eyes lock. Accidental brush in the narrow shade. His hand on my arm. Steadying. Or more? Heart thumps. Backyard edges the riverbank. Barges could dock any minute. Mariners snoring on decks nearby. We freeze. Grin. He whispers, ‘Momo…’ Voice husky. I nod. Drop the scythe. Pull him deeper under the low branches. Bark scratches my back as I press against the trunk. His breath hot on my neck. Lips graze. Decision made. No words. Just the pull.