INFP: He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not—
Friend: What are you doing?
INFP: What does it look like I’m doing?
Friend: Desecrating my garden. That’s your tenth flower.
INFP: Best of ten.
Friend: You do realise that daisies are not an accurate source of information when it comes to determining whether someone loves you?
INFP: Oh, I know. He loves me, he loves me not…
Friend: So why bother with it, then?
INFP: The flowers may not talk to you, but they chatter to me all the time. Sometimes, we even play Chinese Whispers, if the wind is blowing the right way.
Friend: Oh, for the love of God. I mean it. It’s a complete and utter waste of time, the way I see it—and don’t you have a novel you should be writing?
INFP: I know the flowers aren’t actually going to tell me if he loves me or not. I just do it because it’s romantic. When I pluck the petals and whisper the words beneath my breath, I feel like some heroine in a film, lovesick and beautiful, like Ariel in The Little Mermaid.
Friend: Isn’t that a show for children?
INFP: You don’t like Disney?
Friend: Not particularly, no. What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you?
INFP: Not—like—Disney! I’m sorry. Our friendship must come to an end. It has been good knowing you. Shall we shake hands, all melancholy and solemn-like?
Friend: So who is it that you’re pining over this time? Is it the one who works at the grocery store, who smiled at you that one time?
INFP: No. It turns out he didn’t harbor a secret love for me. He was just being friendly.
Friend: You don’t say. So who is it, then? Do I know him?
INFP: Not exactly.
Friend: What kind of answer is that? Wait. Let me guess. You do have a tendency to yearn after the bold and pragmatic, which is frankly beyond me, seeing as they are the exact opposite of who you are, and therefore terribly incompatible. Why do you like them so much? All they do is hurt you with their insensitivity.
INFP: I don’t know, to be honest. I think it’s because they have a soft streak, underneath all the hardness, and I want to get to it and snuggle there, like a worm wriggling its way to an apple’s soft core.
Friend: Okay, well, I did not understand a word of that. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. The heart must keep its secrets, I suppose.
INFP: It’s you.
INFP: Just kidding. There’s isn’t anyone. I’m just plucking these petals for an imaginary person in my head, who I pretended to have met at certain spots throughout the neighbourhood and who sent me flowers on my birthday—imaginary ones, of course. Those are the best.
Friend: Oh! I should have guessed. Dinner’s ready. You can come inside and join me, if you want.
INFP: Okay. Bye.
INFP: He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me! He loves me. Does he? Oh, daisy, is it true? Do you speak the truth? Oh, I so wish you could speak, and tell me, and we could have a good proper conversation about it, person to plant. Well, I suppose I’ll find out. Come on, little flower, let’s go get our dinner.