They spread out amidst the flowers (Papaver rhoeas, he said). Waves of shimmering heat turned the blooms into a lush impasto, thick incarnadine whorls. High growths and grasses concealed them. Possessions sat by mute and offended, waiting for the attention they would never fully receive. Her insides boiling now, the sunlight roasting her brown, heaving back, the Bordeaux—no, they hadn’t opened it yet... she thought she felt a passing shadow, a presence. The arranger of this scene?

"Don't stop now!” he hissed, thrusting up hard. “Merde!”

No, just prying angels, or maybe their sins become flying monkeys.