He walks from one end of the house to the other. It’s a long, thin house, but this isn’t enough so he picks up the phone, checks for messages, listens, hangs up when there are none.
He’s familiar with the cliché about there being hundreds of TV channels but nothing of interest and still he grips the remote and puts it to the test. When he’s done he goes back to the phone, checks for messages, listens, hangs up when there are none.
He plays The Streets never went to church on repeat, singing along until his voice goes. What must the neighbours think: will there be a message telling him what they think? There isn’t, there are no messages so he hangs up.
Unable to sleep he creeps from bed and moves through the dark. He goes to the phone, of course, waits to be connected to messages and listens. Finally there is a message and though the voice he hears is his own he tells himself, that’s okay.