You measure time in cigarettes.
It's a precise addiction; seven minutes per hit. It's been twenty since you called, and now, by the glowing ash, he should be leaving.
And you wait.
Finally, after three in a row, you don't light another one, and sit in silence. Time is meaningless with nothing to measure it.
The phone rings.
"Where are you?"
"I'm still here."
"You're waiting for me?"
"Wasn't I supposed to?"
"All right, I'm coming."
You light another, but stretch it out this time, without realising it. Measurements have nothing to do with time. At least he remembered.
It should not be this complicated.