The Telephone

Her weary body fidgets uncomfortably in the big arm chair in the living room.  A glance towards the wall where the clock is hung tells her its 12:43. Fine creases between her eyebrows are formed and she forces herself to look away. She endeavors to direct all her concentration towards the-not-so-serene sound of her breath. In and Out. In and Out. In and Out.
And then she fails.

Soon enough, she finds herself hovering on the edges of sleep, as though strong magnets are pulling her body and making sleep more and more inducing. But no. She opens her eyelids and slowly gets on her feet and heads for the kitchen. She makes herself coffee using the espresso machine and then pours it into her favorite cup while staring unseeingly at the darkness outside the window. 
And then the phone rings.

She runs as fast as her legs allow after throwing the cup on the mahogany table beside the kitchen's entrance. Half way through, she stumbles and falls. She curses under her breath and runs some more. Finally, she  gets it. Almost breathless she picks it up and answers. She sighs heavily; it was a wrong number.
And then, she gets back to her chair.