The first real tomato of the season

I picked it this morning—still warm from the sun, a deep, uneven red like old brick. The stem snapped clean, no resistance. I held it in my palm for a minute before biting in. No sweetness at first, just that sharp green tang of unripe earth. Then the juice came, thick and golden, pooling on my tongue. It tasted like rain after drought. I didn’t even wash it. That’s how it should be.