The Infinite Woe of Bernard Roe

There are few things, thought Bernard Roe, more melancholy than a cold cup of tea. Waiting, expectant, discarded; a gift refuted, a treat forgotten, an opportunity ignored.
Bernard Roe had not had much to think about of late. He moved to take a sip of his tea but the heat stopped his lips from making contact. Roe was a victim of - among various ailments including agoraphobia and an unsightly twitch in the left eye - premature success. His first novel, written in the right place at the right time, steered by the right agent and championed by the right publishers, had boosted him to the summit of every bestseller list that mattered. His second novel, two years later and equally well received, had relieved his fears that his success might be difficult to sustain, but too soon. A decade later, it was the last thing he had published. His royalties had lasted, but his esteem had not, and he sat now, dejected and bereft, gazing deeply into a blank notebook.
A mist of identical days spanned behind him. He knew he had to find new experiences, to meet and talk to new people, but just opening his front door terrified him. He took his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a zero and a seven, followed by nine random digits. Holding it to his ear, a recorded message informed him that no such number existed. He tried again.
This time the dialling tone sounded. After four rings it ceased.
“You were supposed to call five minutes ago.” The voice on the other end was that of a middle-aged man; abrupt and without warmth.
Bernard’s pulse accelerated rapidly.
“Sorry, I was held up.”
“I'm not interested. Where are you?”
Bernard had no plan, but to pause; to assess the extent to which his desperation could take him; and to reply with his home address. The line went dead, and Bernard sat with the receiver to his ear for some time, his thoughts fading into the monotonous tone emitted by the telephone.
Twenty minutes passed, then footsteps on the gravel and a sharp knock. He tipped his cold tea into the sink before heading to the door. His mind was alive with possibilities of what could lie on the other side; he felt he could have started and finished a novel before his visitor had given up and walked away.
He did not want this to happen. Hand shaking, he turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. The man stood on the porch was a little over six feet tall. He wore a startlingly accurate pig’s head mask and, with neither party saying a word, lifted open the door of the small cage in his arms to allow the thin black snake inside to spring from its coil into Bernard Roe’s face, his eyes wide expressing nothing but surprise and then nothing at all as he hit the floor.
Four hundred and seventy three miles away, James Carpenter, after having sat with the phone on his lap for some hours, replaced it on the sideboard. Perhaps he could go on. James Carpenter possessed the beginning and the end of the story; Bernard Roe the middle.

Is there more, or is this it?

I wonder if Bernard Roe, the writer, skips a space between paragraphs and remembers to show and not tell.