The pouting princess and the noble giant

ecause he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong. He’s much too big to start fights with the local fishermen, for example. In fact, most of the villagers would run away when they heard his footsteps approaching the town square. Now that they know him, they greet him with the same disinterest they reserve for everyone.

But his hands are enormous. His fingers easily wrap themselves around my shoulders like a coat to hold me in their warmth. I grab one of his fingers with both my hands and it’s rough, but not so rough. Rough in a funny way, an attractive way, a way my soft skin longs to touch. A calloused rub of the cheek and I’m plasticine in his hand; not quite jelly, but supple and giving enough to mould with dedication.

When I hear him stomping heavily through the narrow alleys of town, I perch dramatically on a chaise longue, put on my most beguiling pout and wait: to see that large, green eye, peer through the window and with its fluffy, light-brown lashes, wink the first of our many morning hellos.

“Hello!” he booms.

“Hello to you!” I reply, most jovially of my own accord.

“May the day treat you most kindly, that is to say, slow through what you want, quickly through what you don’t.” He speaks in riddles, of course. Plainly hidden, much the same way he camouflages himself amongst the mountains, pretending to be at least a very large hill.

He plucks a rose bush and attempts to hand it to me before he realises the error of his ways. With a fingernail, he digs a hole and plants the poor creature in my garden and grins.

“Good morning!” he booms again, as I sip my juniper tea.

“Indeed it is!” I wink at his massive smile and nearly offer him a cup before I realise the error of my ways. He laughs heartily and I wince and scrunch my shoulders at this powerful belly rumble from deep. The immediate earth winces, too, and shakes with us.

“I’ve brought my own, thanks.”

We sit side by side on the humid grasses behind my house. Well, it feels side by side. In reality, he sits on the grass and I sit on his knee, only because I don’t wish to sully my dress and his knee is rather more comfortable than the ground, unless I make him laugh again. Languidly, we sip our teas and commiserate on the state of all things known and unknown.

I sometimes pinch the meat on his thigh between my thumb and forefinger just to see if he can feel it (he can). And when he feels a belly laugh coming on (which is far too frequent) he pinches my waist in the same manner, to keep me from falling off. Unfortunately, the pinch doesn’t discourage the violent rumbling from mussing my hair.

We have many rituals with which we conspire to escape. I bring him honey, he feeds me cheese. We talk about the pointless cycles of flowers, or the existentialist notions of bees (they have them). We read many things (a more laborious endeavour than one might imagine, owing to the generally accepted sizes of letters) and sometimes he implores me to sing. Or at least, he doesn’t implore me not to sing, which I think is the same.

And in the late afternoon to early evening, by the last dying light of a fast fading sun, we catch fireflies for minutes and bask in their nature’s warmth. Because he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong.