A Chair and Dirty Feet
Eric knew he smelled bad.
He had been working all day digging up roots for the harvest, which meant his skin was sweaty and grimy and his clothes were less than presentable, and his face and hands were stained with ground in dirt.
But he still wanted to spend the evening with Lynn.
So after he had dumped his last bag of roots into the big collection bin, he told his foreman he was done, and walked off the field, trudged the five miles back to town, taste of grit in his mouth, rough feel of pebbles under his soles, and stood in front of Lynn’s door and smoothed back his rough hair, and knocked lightly with a seven rap melody to let her know he was there.
He waited patiently while the sun touched the horizon on the way to disappearing for the night. No answer from
