We were sat on the edge of a fountain, surrounded by the noise of the city, people talking, laughing, encompassing us in to those brief little moments of their lives. He hadn’t stopped looking at his hands, lacing his fingers around one another continuously. He paused, delved his hands in to each pocket of his coat in turn, picking out tobacco, then rolling papers, filters one after another, never once stilling his hands. I realised why when he started to roll his cigarette, and the concentration slowed his hands until they started to shake. It wasn’t enough to hinder his actions, was barely even noticeable had I not been looking straight at them, and when he put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it his hands started to quicken their movements, cupping his mouth for only an instant over the click of the lighter and the first trace of smoke. One hand gestured with the cigarette as he started to talk again, his words faltering as he mechanically withdrew his hand from another pocket and started to scroll through the menu of his phone, eyes following his thumb as he flicked open one icon after another.