I slice the crisp pear thinly, the way you like, and finger-place it into your mouth as you lay limp as a child in my lap. The hard cheese crumbles at the warmed knife, so I press crumbs between thumb and first-finger, mold it and let you suck it out from my pursed grip like a bird, feeding. It is summertime and the cheese flattens in the heat, the pear sweats its sweet juice and the tickly grasses waggle dry-yellow tongues at the eucalyptus that shades us here, where the bees hive. They are busy ignoring us, stretched like burnt…