Flat line

He calls it a flat.

Not an ahhh — parrrt—ment.

Americans pronounce everything so oddly. It’s something he relishes but won’t ever tell her. It’s just too tempting to poke fun at. He asks for help decorating the new flat. She’s overjoyed. They skype for hours nightly. Kitchen colours, bathroom tile, this faucet or that one.

“Where have you been?” she says “I found the most awesome photo for that blank wall.”

Awesome. Why do Americans always use that word? Everything is awesome, perfect, amaaa-zzzing. Always over the top. She’s so damn adorable, he thinks.

“Oh, just out doing bits and bobs.” says he warmly.

“When will you be coming here?” he then begs.

“Soon as my project is complete,” she responds “couple of months tops.”

The project is delayed three months. The flat completed and decorated in bright colors, cozy rattan chairs, modern art and lights. Large posters of retro bands they love are hung in timeline sequence on the walls.

It’s hard to chat every day. She’s wrapping up. He’s busy too. Weekly check-ins help her breathe in his distinctive and familiar Brit accent. He always ends the calls with “miss you so much babe.”

Surprise airline ticket confirmation copied. She’ll paste it on his FB.

She recognizes the bathroom tile in the pic posted by the platinum blonde girl who tagged him and changed her location to Shoreditch from New Zealand. The selfie statement squeals in delight at the blonde’s perfect new flat and amazing new man.