It sat there, a lifeless grey plastic mold.  For some it was just a means
of communication, a method by which the contacting of friends became
simple and easy - the touch of a button could call Marcy, Jane, Jack, or
John whether they wanted to hear from you or not.  For him it was an
irritant, a formality, fake, not real; leading to conversations stretching
yawning gaps in time when one *should* be doing other, better, things
with his time.  With all that said, his opinion stated, why was he sitting
here nervously clutching and wringing his hands, waiting for that call of
which he is sure must come?  How had the inanimate piece of