Unlike Hero

The telephone stood on a pine stool, crafted a hundred years ago by a poor French carpenter, but it had been in the family for generations now, passed on by time and death in the family, but it was not this antique table that Michael was staring at, it was something of a different nature, something that was found at the heart of nature, love, although he did not whisper theses words aloud, he left them deep inside, tubling and toiling over his future.
Wondering if he should pick the phone up and call his new found love, he pondered the question several times over before thinking of the constant advice his friends would give, to keep that distance, never to seem over anxioux, so he ignored his instincts and turned to his room for his shoes. Ignoring that white plastic telephones as if if would make no difference to his life at all, instead he slipped his shoes on, swung the front door open and stepped outside.