The sigh that follows a protracted, tantalizing gulp from a fresh, cold pint of Guinness is paradise. That luxurious satin nectar of bitter ecstasy filling around your tongue, your gut, your blood.
It’s the hard-earned sigh when propping up a stiff foot after a long hard Saturday, where the fifth cup of coffee could not jolt your memory of dragging sore wearied thighs out of bed that morning at six because after hours of work it already seemed like yesterday. A Saturday where the warm spring wind felt coarse on your skin and the sun pelted your eyes. You pass by a carousel of children, their laughter screeching in your ears urging you to flee the sight of unfettered delight. But the sigh, it shuddered you out of a day-long stupour, shattered the cocoon of funk and heat, and tossed you to a street abuzz with life and light and laughter and you are elated.
A long, drawn-out, meandering, cathartic, releasing sort of sigh. The breathless sigh that follows climax, when you collapse into a sweaty tangled heap of flesh and sweat and melt into the person you loved. The inadvertent sigh followed by blushing embarrassment when you’re crushed by the encompassing weight of a masseuse, your joints crying out in unison, expelling all your anxieties. The satisfied sigh that follows ruinous release, when you finally sit on your toilet, after clenching your butt in a crowded train for twenty minutes, mustering all the celestial might of man to hold back the flood. The consoling sigh when life is bleak and a dear friend tightly presses herself into you, without calling, her arms, her smell, her warmth giving you anchor.
Such is the sigh of a pint of Guinness on a hot spring day.
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