Gemotions

He’d sworn he'd be in the shed, not here. But his wife, bless her persistence, had won out. “Just check the old storage boxes, dear,” she’d pleaded. “You never know.” He knew. He knew. He knew it would be a waste of time.

He knelt, avoiding the cobwebs that draped like ghostly curtains. Inside the first box, a stack of brittle newspapers. He slammed the lid shut. More boxes. More potential disappointment. He wouldn’t even *look* at the contents.

His back ached, a sharp, insistent protest. He stood up. He'd find a way around this chore. “Honey,” he called down the stairs, his voice carrying the faint tremor of rising defiance, “I can’t find anything of interest.”