Bested

It is hot and slightly humid, the weather. Yonder (yonder?) mountains are indistinct behind a haze of sorts which might be moisture, or carbon monoxide, or smoke from the bombs of the ninja who live there which is true and not a lie at all. Non-yonder mountains are not hiding. They are verdant, and proud, and wearing their power cables coquetteishly.

I am sweating freely. My fingers skid across the slick keyboard pressing keys I didn't intend them to. I am eating peanut butter. I am asking myself why I do this - eat peanut butter. I am clawing at the roof of my mouth with both index fingers, desperate to dislodge the peanutty bolas welded there. The tongue often proves inadequate.
I am on the balcony, hot-boxing a cigarette. A little kid in the park down below is lying on a bench staring up at the clouds, or perhaps trying to think of which wine would go best with mutton. I do not know. He sees me.

I wave.

He waves back, and our little communication has begun. Next I present the 'fox' type hand symbol popular at the 'rock 'n' roll' concerts I understand teenagers like to attend. He returns the gesture. In a literal sense. Next I do thumbs up. This is no problem for him. Thumbs down. Ditto. Two thumbs down. Just double the last one - easy. Must up the ante. I do the Vulcan greeting (for which I have to look at my hand to check) and he counters with a double. I am unable to do that, so I parry with a complex sequence of gestures, taking care not to flip him the bird. He is equal to it, then he is superior to it. A vast string of digital signs is presented to me. He gazes expectantly. I wave and come back inside.

I am thankful for moments like these.