eight/threefivesix

The quietest cigarette in the world.

In Sam's back garden in Belsize Square, sitting on the steps, the house on my left, the open door, spilling just a little light onto the ground, the other flats above his, lights off, nothing there.

So quiet.

For a moment, then, there's not even any cars, and I listen more, to hear the hedge moving slightly, bugs and an animal, to hear the sound of Sam's cameraphone clicking at something in the house.

More, to hear cars several streets away, someone's heels on the pavement.

And more, the noise of the city itself, the dullest roar of millions.

So quiet, when I take a drag I can hear the paper crackle.