Phone ringing. Clock ticking. It’s raining cats and dogs outside his window pane. One stunning serenity paints all over his exquisite physique. His eyes are closed. It’s dark outside. Lights are still out inside his medium-sized condo unit.
Phone ringing. Clock ticking. Beer bottles are all over his bedside space. One cigarette butt is laying quietly below his bedside lamp. His eye brows gradually met. And slowly, without any hint of elapsed time, finally, he answers the phone.
He opens his eyes. But not his mouth. His lips never departed for the past seven minutes or so. He glances at his digital clock beside the cigarette butt laying quietly below his bedside lamp. Passed four, it says. He inhales a strange scent, taking time to sink it in. Then gives up.
His brand new touch-screen phone furrows as it leaps two centimetres high up and down his bedside space. Making a barely audible clink as it touches the butt of a beer bottle. The girl’s sobs at the other end of the line can still be heard. But only by the beer bottle.
It’s still raining cats and dogs. And it’s still dark outside. Lights are still out and his phone begins to ring again. He stares at his brand new touch-screen phone. And reads the caller’s name out loud. A tangible pang prodded his heart. It was as if her name is a double-edged sword.
Phone ringing. Clock ticking. He picks up his phone and sits straight. His bed made a frisky funny noise as he gets up and heads for the door. He turns the lights on. The scatters on his living room welcomed his immature day, his twenty-seventh day of living like that.
Phone ringing. Clock ticking. He uttered the caller’s name, once again feeling a dangerous pang prodding his heart. Gripping his brand new touch-screen phone so hard, he finally responded to the caller’s desperate yearning.