The weather

No letters. No calls. Only silence. Even the outside commotion seemed muffled, muted.

The sky was gray, faceless. Woody sat, on just such a day, staring intently out the window. There wasn't much of a view: only the buildings across the small span of unkempt grass and hedges.

"Wha'! The phone's ringing," Woody thought. "Nah, it never rings."

It rang. Woody turned and stared at the phone, sitting on the nightstand across the room. It rang again. Again.

"Who the hell could that be? Nobody's called in a long time. Nobody's called."

Again.

He looked at his hand on the arm of the chair and by sheer force of will lifted it, then the other, and finally driving his whole body out of the chair, he found himself lumbering toward the phone.

Again, it rang.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming … man, the phone …."

He lifted the receiver and put it gingerly to his ear.

"The time is 11:20. The weather: cloudy and cool, " a mechanical voice spoke.

Woody smiled and hung up. He turned and walked almost lightly to his chair, sat down and gazed out the window again. A renewed sense of worth flooded his entire being.