Walter Sprigg

Walter Sprigg was my seventh and last boyfriend. He used to tell me to smell his feet after he worked in his father’s seed mill for ten hours each day. He drove a fork-lift and carried pallets weighed down by bags of grass seed. After he came home to our studio apartment, he would untie his shoelaces, scoot his socks down and wiggle his toes, insisting that I take a deep breath and take in the aroma. The grass seed would stick on top of his swollen feet, resembling a sesame seed hamburger bun, and yes, Monday through Saturday, I would bend and indulge Walter Sprigg, right there in the center of that tiny space while he hopped and balanced on one foot, holding the other parallel to my nose.