The silent communication; the hand to mouth gesture of a cigarette bumming. So much is conveyed: Do you have a cigarette?, Can I have one?, I thank you in advance. His words were a little mumbled. A lot mumbled. The impediment of trying to sound like your friends - the people you hang out with. He moved the smoke in between his fingers, judging its value, its weight. A man with no fear. Unafraid of strangers, conversation, or narcs. He had a small lime-yellow bag of nugs in his pocket and he wasn't afraid that I would see. He talked to me like he knew me and we slapped palms in camaraderie when he departed. He didn't judge me by my skin; that I might be an enemy or apthetically ignorant or even afraid of him. He just talked and we talked and laughed and cursed. And curse we did, in high coarse tones. As he got off, he checked both of his pockets to check on his stash, and then he gave me a sly grin and a hearty laugh. I'll never see him again, but the next time I do I'll know that he's my friend.