Love letter from an introvert

I once took a test that said I am 97%

introvert, which explains so much, but

I didn’t even know that was possible.

2% must go to how was your weekend or

what’s the plan for the weekend – depending on

how far in the week we are, and all the other

things in between that could have been

an email.

The last 1% goes to dinner and drinks

with people I actually care about, but because

I am an introvert, all the people I love don’t know

each other, so I have to meet everyone for

at least three hours, each. I am not complaining

of course, as I said I love them but

it still takes three business days to recover

from one evening of being social. Most of the time

I prefer my books. And plants. And cats.

Basically things that are not human

and animals that are not dogs.

When the pandemic happened, I never had

more energy in my life. It was a tragedy

I don’t wish on humanity again, but I still miss

the silence, the empty roads, and social

distance – everywhere from supermarkets

to restaurants with tables for two, spaced

so far apart we couldn’t eavesdrop

on the couple fighting next to us.

You see, I am happy with very little

and exhausted by many things. I never thought

I could stand living with another person

but I mean it when I say you feel like

a piece of furniture to me, maybe a big soft

fabric sofa in burnt orange or forest green.

What I mean is you exist like white noise

in the backdrop of my life, comforting and safe

enough to fall asleep to. I mean that you blend

into the off-white sheets and pebble-grey walls.

I don’t know if this is turning out to be

a crappy love letter but what I’m trying to say

is that you take very little from me

in a noisy world that asks a lot more

than I have to offer. What I’m trying to say

is that you don’t count, inside the 3%,

or even my 100%, because you belong

in a special category called my favourite place,

where there are books, plants, cats, and you.