It’s the Italian summer of 1983. Days are warm in the rural area, cicadas sing and a breeze brushes through the trees. You’re bored out of your mind, deciding to check up on Elio. You knock on the attic door and Elio scrambles on his mattress, hurriedly adjusting his shorts. You don’t question why his bare chest is perspiring or his awkward gaze or even the pink tint flushing his pale face. But what you do question… is the pitted peach, sitting dumbly on his desk…