False Factors

Short stories aren't something I typically do, or have ever done. I wrote this and quickly read through only once, I'm trying to spend more time sharing and less time dissecting. Feedback is welcome!

 I contemplate speaking, since I know he can hear, but I'm aware his ears are deaf to my voice. I shouldn't expect him to answer. I shift my eyes around the room; grey carpet, a poorly upholstered floral sofa, and dim hotel lighting from small bedside lamps. My eyes again fall on his clenched fists, tucked under his broad chin, vibrating uncontrollably. His anger is evident, I can almost see it spreading through his body. I am falsely empathetic in what can only be a selfish manner.
His widened eyes, still like mountains, stare intensely at the floor. I watch his bottom lip quiver, only slightly, and a short twinge of genuine guilt stabs through my torso, only briefly, and only a moment passes before I regain my composure. By this time thick beads of sweat had begun to slip down his neck and I sigh in frustration.
“I don't know what else to say.” The dense silence that had fallen in the room continues on his end and the tension has become more prominent. The way he refrains from speaking annoys me, and the small amount of patience I have begins to fail me. “There's nothing left to say.” My voice echoes on the empty walls and again, no response. His posture straightens slowly in the chair and his dart like eyes find mine reluctantly.
“I should have known,” He hisses, venom in his jaded words “Should have expected it from you...”
“Maybe you should have.” I respond cooly “And maybe I should have expected you to show up like you did; you always were the paranoid type.”
“For good reason!” He spat, raising his voice slightly. I shrug in return. His face boils a deep scarlet and again I search for the 'correct' emotion I should be feeling. I opt for a cigarette instead, reaching for an open pack on the bedside table. I slip it between my fingers, lighting it delicately and inhale slow calm breaths. He stays stationary across the room, resuming his stare on the floor. I pull my feet onto the bed stretching them away from me and lean against the wall.
“ Do you find a strong draft in the room?” I ask, pulling my silk robe tighter to my body. There is a moment of stillness before he raises his tear brimmed eyes to meet mine again for a brief glance, then rises to his feet. He walks in long strides to the door without a word; right before the latch clicks shut I hear a stiffened sniffle. Scoffing to myself I reach for the telephone and dial a familiar number.
“It's me,” I speak softly “It's safe to come back, he's gone now” I hear a grunt of acknowledgement and rest the phone back on its hook. My head leans back as I puff my cigarette, I trace imaginary pictures in the popcorn ceiling and I wait.