She meets a guy she likes.

He doesn’t call or text as often as she’d like.

Yet she shrugs it off and says,

“It’s nothing. English is not his first language.”

It’s not a habit per se,

It’s just his thing.

He likes being chased,

Satisfied with having her call and text him.

So, she calls, texts, content with having a relationship perfect only in her imagination.

“Hello,” she says, calling him yet again.

“Heyyyy!” He says, “I miss you. Wanna meet?”

Of course she wants to meet.

She misses him too.

She goes over to his

They do what lovers do.

He kisses her goodbye, says,

“I enjoyed our time together. I’ll call you.”

Her phone never rings, no text beeps.

Terrible network? Bad internet?

Oh, wait. It’s English

It is, after all, not his first language.

On and on she calls, texts, meets him, loves him,

Decides there and always that this is love as she deserves to have it.