Hall

I've not written in third person in a very very very long time. This is my first attempt in a long while, so tell me if there are parts that get awkward.
This is, as of right now, the introductory chapter of my newest story.

Enjoy! (hopefully)

Hall stared at the pile of unopened envelopes. For weeks he'd avoided opening them, shoving each one in a different crevice. The large comfy-chair, sitting solitary in the middle of his two room apartment, hid at least 5 under the cushion. He didn't have to read them to know what they said; his electricity got shut off a week earlier, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything besides Ramen. His cell phone would stop working any day now, but Hall would deal with that when it happened.

His steps echoed depressingly in the apartment, emphasizing the emptiness of his home. Hall's father tried to call every day, but that annoyance was easily resolved with the "reject call" button. Gosh, he loved that button. Maybe he'll make a six foot sculpture of it. Probably not, though. He couldn't afford the clay for a six foot sculpture. heck, for any sculpture.

This is what it feels like to be a starving artist, he thought to himself. Really and truly. Hall knew he was supposed to feel something akin to self-actualization, but the only thing he noticed was the ever constant gnawing in his stomach. Was it his actual hunger or not knowing how he was going to survive that bothered him more?

Hall walked over to the chair and plopped into the seat. Creaks and moans escaped from under its dusty springs as his body settled in.

"For criminy sakes," he muttered at the poor thing. Hall started in on his familiar routine of wallowing in self-pity. It was a nightly ritual, developing only in the past few weeks. The rationale behind it said something about "brooding is good for the art," but we all know that that's just as bad as "the dog ate my homework."

A steady vibrating under his seat interrupted Hall's thoughts. It was the phone. Reaching down into the chair, he pulled it into view. The number blinked steadily on the front screen as Hall stared, trying to figured out who could possibly be on the other side. the area code meant nothing to him, unfamiliar in all aspects. Finally, the suspense grew too high and he flipped open the phone.

"Holland Pierce speaking." He used his professional voice in case the caller was a potential patron.

"Is this the sculpture, Holland Pierce?" a scratchy female voice, probably belonging to an elderly woman, asked.

Hall hesitated.

"Yes..." he replied. "May I ask who's calling?"

"This is Virginia Black, and I have a proposition for you."

As Hall listened to Virginia, his shoulders relaxed from their constant stressful hunch. He couldn't hide a smile as the conversation progressed.

It may not be tomorrow, he mused, but the sun is definitely coming out.