Warm

He woke up one morning, no different from the previous day.
Cloudy and humid, and warm.
Then he remembered that great war, that one in which he was destined to die, that one fought for nothing.
He remembered.
He would wake up in those days as monotonously as any previous day.
Cloudy and humid. Warm.
Then the sun would pierce through thick leaves and scorch skin.
White, pimpled faces had turned so red in that great war, they shone in the sea of green as did the tomatoes in their wives’ salads.
Sliced in quarters, as red pored through the holes in their bellies.