A Vignette

As he inhaled, the quiet of the corn field let him hear the little searing of his joint, introducing a little dash of vermillion into his otherwise hibernating subconscious. The sound brought back nostalgia-dripped memories to his otherwise arid existence. He remembered the first time he was here, back when hair had first sprouted on his upper lip, led by the obese, experienced hand of the Russian maid. It must have not lasted more than a couple of minutes but on that lazy afternoon, as the sun bore down harshly on the maid's bare back, coloring it with its inimitable red, he had finally become what he had dreamed of – a content and peaceful but sweating warrior.