He hasn't called.
She drums her fingers on her desk, chews her nails, taps a pencil against her desk in rat-a-tat gunshot sounds. He said he'd call when he was finished and he hasn't called.
Could mean anything; death, capture, possession, or forgetfulness, exhaustion, a sudden whim. He's annoying that way, unpredictable.
The clock ticks by, the sound harsh on her spine, clicking of metal against bone. He hasn't called.
Five o'clock, she gets fed up, grabs her purse and leaves. He's not worth this, she tells herself. He's not worth this.
She tries very hard to believe it.