Muse (Heartbeat)

He was big. Of giant proportions. Well, maybe just because she was short and petite so that everything and everybody else seemed much bigger from her perspective. She suspected that he was at least 1.7-1.75 meters tall, whereas she was a mere 1.52 meters ( she had measured herself a year ago and was certain that she had not gained a millimeter).
He was incredibly tall and sensually dark, so naturally she had fallen for him, although he wasn't so handsome. In fact some could argue that he was point blank ugly. But beauty had never been too important to her when it came to love. She insisted that eyes were the first thing that "move my heart" about a person. And his eyes were his best feature, being small, slanted toward the top of his ears and framed with long 'wasted-on-a-boy' type lashes and thick brows. She said those eyes refused to lie and that they emitted the rawest of his emotion, they absolutely mesmerized her.
We watched her fall for the bright radiance of his darkness, it excited her. And, well, his tallness left her weak. His whole appearance seduced her. It was quite fortunate that he was a great person as well- kind, easy-going, generous, hilarious. "It would have been a waste if he was a horrible person", she would say. Because although appearance attracted her first, it was a person's character that would win her heart in the end. And win her heart he did. She fell deep into his love (and it was deep) and felt as though she would never resurface. And if she ever did then his love was like a baptism, she would never be the same again.
Her friends would tease her about him. "Chomi, he's not pretty". "It must be real love hey?". "And he's soo tall", another would remark. " Just look at his shoe size". Titters. "Well, you know what they say about a man's shoe size". Louder chuckles. She'd feign ignorance and ask, "what do they say?". Whispering, "it indicates how big his 'cassava' is". More outrageous laughter. And she would join in blushing. But she would not ("never, under any circumstances!") confirm whether the myth was true or not. Because to confirm was to confess to have seen it. To confess to have seen it was to confess to "doing it" with him. She had 'done it' with him and the the memory of it made her smile alone.
 Both his hands and feet were large. His fists were the size of both her fists bundled together. Another someone would immediately have thought of the danger such a person was if he was prone to violence. But she never did. He was gentle. What she immediately thought of was how his fist was indicative of how big his heart must be, (you know what they say). Not just figuratively but literally. She would lie with her ear to his chest and listen to his heart beat hard "bong! bong! bong! bong!" against his rib cage. Its strength amazed her. it was like a charismatic type of sound therapy- a mixture of how peaceful she felt listening to the ocean and how  excited she felt listening to the thunder rumble. For her it was like a loud drum reverberating across the walls of a hollow cave. It beat the heat of a meter-high fire in its center. It beat the non-stop rhythm of bare stamping feet raising dust up. It beat the stories painted by the fire projected shadows on the walls of her imagination. She thought his heart echoed tales of the past to the present.
 And so she would listen for a while, then get up to tell him a story, half true, half made up on the spot, about the heroes of yore, the history of their country, their continent, her people, the tragic, the comic. She had never written as many stories as she did when she was with him. Her imagination ran wild. "Please tell me a story" he would ask. "No, you should. Its your turn", she would complain. "But i don't know any, you do". "Well, you should. It is your heart that tells me these stories".