Gemotions

He'd been so sure he could help. "Of course, Mr. Peterson," he’d said, smiling easily. "You can have as much space as you need." Now, a week later, he was staring out the window, his jaw clenched, at the space allocated. He hadn't even started clearing the area. The weeds were still flourishing, the grass still uncut.

The promise hung over him. He felt it in his stomach, a dull throb. The longer he delayed, the worse it got. He knew he should get out there, get started. But the thought of it, of the effort involved, of the inevitable questions from Mr. Peterson, was paralyzing.

He kept busy, anything to avoid the inevitable. The unused shovel leaned against the shed, a constant reminder of his unfulfilled commitment.