Into the Wiles

Whether in a press conference, interview, or on a daytime or night-time chat show, all celebrities, sportsmen, and especially politicians will attempt to avoid answering uncomfortable questions.  The best at this often leave the person who asked the question believing they have an answer.  This then allows them to move on from those sticky subjects that could so easily become full-scale scandal, or lead to reprimand.  There are different ways of achieving a successful dodge which will be outlined here, which will allow you not only to know what to look out for, but also possibly one day allow you yourself to dodge questions. 

A). Same subject, no relevance.

This is a popular technique, most commonly used to deflect attention and curb the momentum of a rumour.  The validity of the rumour often does not matter, rather the pace it picks up within the media.  The trick here is simple enough, one must simply answer in a very short sentence on the general subject being discussed, without either directly answering the question, or lying.  The key to the one sentence approach is that when there is more than one source that will report your answer, they cannot attach different meanings to what you say.    

Here is an example of this technique.  The location is a press conference, in front of many media sources, after a morning that has seen allegations be made in some morning papers about an MP.

Reporter- “I was wondering if the Right Honourable Member had any response to the allegations made in the morning papers of relations of a sexual nature involving animals of the canine species.”

MP- “I own a cat.”

A simple, concise answer that doesn’t answer the question and yet quashes it as mere rumour, stating that they don’t even know the type of animal the person owns.  This story will either now fade immediately or make one more news cycle where it is claimed by the tabloid newspapers that the animal in question is now a cat.  However, this will not receive any coverage as they got it wrong first, and the MP is free to continue whatever bestial relations he may or may not enjoy.

B). Vague and longwinded.

This is a favourite of those from the sporting world, particularly football managers.  A question will be asked, with the context being a particular player, their form or allegations of infidelity etc… and the answer will need to defend and support, but at the same time leave wiggle-room for what could be seen as contradiction later.  This is a difficult skill to master, and many have failed at doing so, leaving them jobless, or sat on the bench.  Vagueness is the key; one must not refer to the individual at all, but refer to the team.  No name should be mentioned so that just enough ambiguity is left for a possible reversal at a later date.  The reason it is long winded is for the opposite reason to the above technique.  The longer your answer is, the more diverse the quotes used, meaning very few media outlets will use the full quote, which again adds to its ambiguity.

Here our example comes from a Premier League manager, being interviewed after the game, asked about a players form.

Interviewer- “A lot of people have been baffled by your continuing selection of John Smith [invented player], who’s form, you must admit, has been far from what we are used to seeing from him, how can you continue to select him if he doesn’t score?”

Manager- “Each player at this club is an individual, and each individual must learn to be a part of a team.  When the team is playing well then it is settled, and each individual plays his part in the team dynamic.  Should their come a time when a player, or coach, jeopardises the team dynamic, we will have to look at it and see what other individuals can come in to the team.”

At no point is the player in question mentioned, and at no point does the manager answer the question here.  He doesn’t address goal scoring, or even the team performances properly.  Furthermore, the long answer means the interviewer must move on and not become bogged down with one player, as he will now sense that the manager will not answer.  Also, if he now sees fit to drop the player, he can say, “I said we’d look at the team dynamic and this seems like the correct move.”

One problem with this technique is that everyone sees through it. However, there is nothing they can do!

C- The Cantona

This high-risk, but high-reward strategy for answering questions takes the largest amount of planning and time.  We all remember Eric Cantona speaking about his suspension for kicking a fan, using the “seagulls” metaphor.  The press were blown away by what they believed was a philosophical statement from the footballing genius.  However, one might more accurately term this technique the “gibberish” technique. 

This is a long-term technique and the groundwork must be made early on in a person’s career.  One must remain aloof from the press at large for a long period of time, and when the inevitable questions arise, talk in riddles and short sentences, indicating that you don’t have much time for the press, or that your time is too important.  The moment you will find that this planning has worked is when you are described in the media as a “recluse”.  This is the magic word, and you are now prepared for any situation that may arise. 

From here it is easy to dodge awkward questions.  One simply must look as if into the distance, and make up a story.  Always remember that the story must seem profound, a story about you making a cup of tea will not do here.

Here in the example we follow a Hollywood movie star.  Remember this person must have laid the groundwork or they will look a fool.

Reporter- “You are accused of being abusive and racist to hotel staff, how do you respond?”

Star- “The roots of a tree run deeper and deeper in their search for water.  If you followed for the source of water you would not be able to follow it all the way down to the source.  But we can always get moisture if we cut into the root.”

You see it almost sounds like the star is answering the question, and yet upon further inspection you find it is indeed utter rubbish.  This is the best dodge there is, and yet I am unaware of many people who have successfully pulled it off.  It takes a lack of vanity that few celebrities are able to master.  One drawback with this is if you haven’t put the work into your preparation then you will be deemed insane rather than eccentric, and this can often be worse than the allegations leveled.

So there it is, three ways of successfully dodging the press and any pesky interviewers who feel they are owed the truth from celebrities, who are just trying to get on with existence.  Happy Dodging!!

NB.  ANY SIMILARITY TO PERSONS ALIVE OR DEAD IS PURELY INTENTIONAL, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

It felt like a toy in his hand, like the water pistols he and his brother had terrorised his parents with as a child.  But this was no toy.  The Glock 17 is a semi-automatic pistol, made from a lightweight polymer compound.  He looked at it again in his gloved hand.  It really was remarkably beautiful.  It was a shame he would have to leave it behind.  He still marvelled at the ease with which he had acquired it, but reasoned with himself that having grown up around gangs, perhaps it wasn’t so strange.  He crouched, stock still, amongst the bushes in the corner of the garden. He had congratulated himself on an excellent hiding place when he had arrived two hours previously.

There was a strange buzzing in his ears, which he put down to the adrenaline that was coursing through his body.  There was no fear, no thought for the consequences, but rather a mild excitement, building at every minute, making his heart play a drum-roll against his rib cage.  He found it amazing that he was keeping his emotions, particularly his rage, in check.  What did it mean to rub out a life, to remove it like the most stubborn stain on a piece of clothing?  He felt no shame or remorse for what he was about to do.  This man gets off easy, he thought.  There was no lengthy battle, no living with pain and no brain damage, not like his brother.  For this was no gang killing, this was vengeance, pure and simple.  He had not seen, did not know, the state he had left the twin brother of the man in the bushes.  Five cracked ribs, a broken arm, and worst of all a cracked skull, the effects of which was yet to be revealed, as he had not regained consciousness. 

He heard movement in the hallway of the house, it was surely time.  His senses heightened, he heard- or did he imagine it- a quick goodbye to the girlfriend, the cause of the trouble.  She would not be killed. Oh she would be punished, a life knowing she caused this, and she would know, but later.  The door creaked open and the man stepped out, he would never see, never know who had done it, which didn’t matter because he would never know anything again.  He steadied his breathing and pointed the pistol, his hand was steady, his eyes cold, unfeeling.  He took aim and squeezed the trigger…

.       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

Ali had not slept.  Sleep was something that was deprived of him at such a dark time in his life.  It was something that belonged to another time, a time when he had a bed, and a room, to himself.  Now, forced to share with 3 crack heads, he could not sleep for a moment lest his small assembly of possessions be taken and sold for the next hit.  He dressed at top speed, trying to get out of his repulsive bedroom as soon as was humanly possible.  He had lived at the Salvation Army hostel for around three weeks, but he was hoping his tenancy there was soon to be at an end.  His twin brother Mo was about to sign for a flat in the centre of Manchester, and this move from the family home would allow Ali to put this painful chapter behind him.

He had lived, until a mere two months previously, in the family home.  He had worked, until that time, for his father, on a used car lot, performing maintenance duties on the new vehicles arriving to be sold, making sure they were ready to be presented to the general public.  It was a job he was very good at, but one he despised.  This was how that blazing row had begun.

Ali was a writer, and a talented one at that.  His poetry spoke to the very heart of all who read it, and he was constantly being told his insight into modern society and problems of the youth were first rate.  His father, on the other hand, hated it.  He saw writing as not only unstable, but not befitting his son.  He would rather Ali stay at the car lot and learn the trade inside out, so that when it came time for his retirement, Ali could take over the business, and there have a steady job until he himself retired.

Ali’s father was a patriarch and a bully.  In the family what he said invariably happened, and each of his four sons, and even his wife, received beatings if ever they questioned his rulings.  He ran the family as a dictator, with a stern voice and raised fists.  Given this upbringing it is not so difficult to imagine where Ali’s creative voice had arisen from, as himself and Mo were the youngest, and therefore had the weakest position in the family.  They had no chance of ever expressing their own views whilst under this tyranny. 

It was out of love for his mother that Ali had been quiet and allowed himself to be so utterly dominated before, and out of fear for her safety that he had never moved out of the house.  That was until the death of his grandmother.  She had nurtured his talent, and encouraged him to find his voice in prose and poetry from an early age.  She recognised his plight as much as his natural passion for the written word.  On her deathbed she had told him to keep writing, to enter competitions, and above all to seek a career in what she considered to be a great talent.  “You are blessed by the almighty with a clarity of vision, and the means to convey this to the people,” she had told him as she lay in her final moments, “and yet you work at a car dealership.  Whatever it takes, you must use this ability; you must not give up.  Do not allow your extraordinary talent to be stifled.”

It was a mere two days after this that the argument occurred, and Ali was sure that, had his mother and brother not leapt to his defence, his father may have killed him.  He had told his father the truth, that he did not want to take over the family business, that he was to be a writer, no matter what it took.  He had deluded himself into believing that the loss of his mother would soften his father to the idea of having a writer in the family.  However, as his brother had predicted the day before, he exploded with rage, advancing on his son with the menace of a lion beginning its assault on a young antelope.  He had been thrown bodily from the room by Mo, and left the house at a run.  He had been back only once, whilst his father was out, to retrieve some of his belongings.  From then he was banished, the black sheep of the family.  He was forbidden from attending his grandmother’s funeral, and warned to stay away from the house.  From then until three weeks ago he had been forced to rely upon the kindness of friends.  However, they had a young family and were unable to put him up for long.  Fear of their father meant that neither of his older brothers could be seen actively helping him, although they did supply him with money when he needed it.

As Ali left his room at the hostel a hand shot out and clutched at his bag.  His reaction was instantaneous.  He turned and kicked out at the man.  He was gaunt and pale, his eyes unfocused, with huge dark rings around them.  The crack had weakened him so that, on seeing that Ali would violently protect his possessions, he let go and turned over in his bed.  Ali walked out into the morning sunshine, and made his short walk to Piccadilly Station.  He felt excited as, for the first time in two months, he had a job which began two days previously.  The bright Manchester sunshine echoed his mood, it was hopeful, a new beginning.  A job and the possibility of a new place to live, with his twin brother; his best friend. 

He used the twenty-minute train journey as a chance to get at least a little sleep, so that when he alighted he felt fresher than he had felt in at least a fortnight.

“You look knackered mate!” said Matt, a lad with whom Ali had struck up an immediate friendship, them both being aspiring writers.  They were also both smokers, and so were found on their breaks together in the designated area.  “Yeah well I didn’t sleep did I” he replied.  Matt knew only a little of his problems, only that he had nowhere to live.  “Have they still not given you your own room?” he asked, “Its pretty obvious that you’re not a crack head.”  Ali shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette.

After a morning of dull, repetitive work they were to be found, once more, in the smoking area.  It was here that Ali received that fateful call. As he let the words wash over him he felt cold, numb.  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  His brother had gone to Sheffield to try to talk his ex-girlfriend into coming back to him.  They had broken up some weeks before, and it had been this that spurred him on to grow up and move out of the family home.  He wanted her to move in with him.  He had instead met her new boyfriend, who had proceeded to beat him unconscious.  He was now in hospital in a coma.  Panic began to set as tears freefell from his eyes into his trembling hands, and onto the phone he was still holding.  With rushed speech he relayed a message to Matt for his boss and sprinted back to the train station, where he knew he only had a short time to arrive in Sheffield and see his brother. 

  It was on the train to Sheffield that he received a text message from his mother.  “We are leaving in two hours to see Mo, so hurry and see him.  Please Please don’t do anything stupid!”  He knew what she meant.  When it came to his brother he had always had a temper.  His mother had always said that there had been a mistake in the womb, that his brother had no anger and Ali had got it double.  However, at this very moment it was fear that had gripped his heart tightly, so he felt constricted in his breathing, as if he were an asthmatic who had run a marathon. 

Seeing him lying there, bruised, entombed in bandages, he felt his blood begin to boil.  Thoughts of revenge took a hold of his heart.  He only stayed minutes; he could not stand that sight.  It burrowed deep into his mind; he saw nothing else on the train back to Manchester.  He ran to his room, his face set, his mind decided.  He had only received it a few days previously, merely as a precaution, to point at the crack heads if they got violent.  He had bought it from a friend of his older brothers, a member of their gang.  He stared at it for a few moments, then feeling caution begin to return he replaced it under his bed and instead grabbed the hammer he had been previously using as his scare tactic.  If he took it he could not go back, it was so definite, so final.  He stood and closed his eyes for a moment, and the image that had tormented him all the way home leapt up again suddenly in his mind, bringing with it a fresh wave of anger that poisoned his heart and blurred his judgement.  It was definite, it was final, and he had to do it.  He removed it once more from under the bed, wrapped it in his towel and stuffed it to the bottom of his bag.  

A millisecond housing an eternity.  He stands rooted to the spot, unable to move but a fraction.  There is no time, and yet, there is plenty.  He becomes fully aware of his body, feels his hearts last pump, the blood slowly moving through his arteries.  He marvels as his hand begins to move up, feeling the processes of his brain as it communicates the message to his limbs. 

Why now, only now, can he feel this?

Why has it never occurred to him how well ordered his body is until now, as he is leaving it?

He sees nothing, hears nothing.

He feels the gentle spring breeze prickle the hairs on his face, and smells the sweet scent of the flowering grass.

More thoughts pile through his mind, as though trying to get as many as possible through in time.  First and foremost, how did he get here?  He rues the events of the previous day, hating himself for the people left, for they will not hate him.  He goes with pride, with honour, but what are these things, what do they mean? 

To depart is to depart, he understands this now. 

The insult, the affront he felt yesterday now pails into inconsequence.  He notices his hand still moves, but it is laboured, as though it too now knows the futility of the action. 

He was slower, is slower.

Looking upon the triumphant stare of his opponent, no, opponent is the wrong word; friend, compatriot, brother, he sees the first tear begin to fall and the expression begin to change.  He watches the muscles in his face reform to show sorrow.

His sorrow is his brother’s sorrow.  The pain is shared.

Scenes and events begin to spiral, with no apparent cohesion- school, work, his friends, parents, colleagues.  He sees his childhood- falling from a bike, burning his hand on a candle, banging his head on a table.  Why can he only remember pain?  The body’s preparation.  More thoughts come to him- being teased, his first heartbreak.  He feels each hurt afresh.

It will be over.  All over.

Finally it arrives, flesh is torn open, passed through as if water.  How had it held together before?  The sting is unbearable, followed by the crack, the splinter of ribs, previously so strong, now made brittle by so small a thing.  Straight through, tearing the heart to shreds, he feels each part separately.  He falls.

The ground meets him.  The ground catches.

Time resumes normal pace; he smells that sweet scent again, feels the warm trickle.  One last cough, one last sniff.

One last breath.

Friday night, around 8pm, stood in front of the mirror, again.  He checks the hair for imperfections, none that he can see.  This is after all the third time he’d looked in the last five minutes.  Checking the slight bump that is visible beneath the urbane yet playful shirt he has chosen for the evening, thinking it was about time he stopped feeling so morose and hit the gym again. 

She was gone, and drinking himself into a stupor every night was not going to change that.  The final touches, a skinny tie- worn slightly loose with the top button of his shirt undone, implicating a casual night out- followed by his favourite shoes.  Chelsea boots, grey leather with a dangerously sharp point and a faded look to them, which of course was how he had bought them, for nothing in his wardrobe got enough wear to become faded.  Finally, he put on the aftershave he had bought quite simply because the advert for the product had shown a man surrounded by tigers. 

This was the uniform of the post-modern man-about-town, smart-casual with an air of quiet confidence, indicated by the strut he adopted as he walked to the awaiting taxi, which was nearly full of men of the same age, dressed in the same fashion, all smelling somewhat similar.  This was his night.  A month of sitting at home was over, time to go back into the wild, the jungle of the nearby city.  Excitement filled him as they drank beers on the way, his hopes for the evening hitting their peak, as they planned out where they would go, how many they would drink in each bar, and which of the multitude of nightclubs they would be frequenting later on. 

He had exhausted all talk of the break up, as each of his friends had been round to try to snap him out of the trance he had been in since it had happened, so tonight was about only one thing, getting her out of his head through the timeless technique of drinking, laughter, and, if at all possible, relearning the ancient art of flirting.  He had known how to talk to women once, but it had all been lost in the haze of long term love, in holidays together, trips to see various family members, and nights in, in front of the T.V.  Those nights were long gone now, replaced by nights in alone, a four pack of strong lager, slow music, and an ever increasing tower of empty pizza boxes.  This night was an end to that. 

One pub down, he had begun to feel that confidence only alcohol can provide, the adrenaline had already begun to course through his veins, as the talk turned to all manner of inane things, some obscene, others clearly critical.  Football, famous women, the latest music.  It was at this point that he felt the ghost that had been haunting him begin to depart, for one night at least, as he threw himself at the mercy of the evening.  They crowded round the next bar, it was time for shots, he would not feel them till the next day, and he would not worry about that until then.

The first argument of the night, a bouncer, bulging from the top of his bald head to the steel enforced toe on his boots, “Sorry lads, not tonight” the replies of incredulity, it couldn’t be full, it was only half past eleven, “You’re all too drunk, I’ve seen you staggering down the road, so it isn’t happening tonight”  the anguished shouts, he found himself leading, the exhilaration at venting on someone who had done him wrong, it was the first time he had felt anything, let alone the fury and indignation that was welling up inside him at this moment, but it faded quickly as they were now met with not one anymore, but six, as if they had been lurking, watching, waiting for them to kick off, they must be loving this as much as he was, but it was no use, they had to leave, there would be other places, and no one wanted to leave at the mercy of any of the emergency services, so they moved on, strolling the streets, a renewed sense of camaraderie, as if they had come out of battle together.

The streets were busy tonight, all groups, as themselves, searching for the frivolity of one night to forget life, to dance, to drink, to revel in an atmosphere that was by and large good, fun, the hedonism of modern society, the carefree nature of the young, feeding on an energy that was the same in all,…

The hunt for the perfect night out!

Another bar, another drink, the concoction bringing a heady sense of freedom.  Where would they end up? No one cared, it wasn’t important, they were together, no one left behind, a team.  A quick game on the electronic quiz machine, if only to gauge how much damage had already been done.  Five pounds later the realisation that brain function was now greatly reduced indicated that it was time to move.

The climax of the night was nearing, the culmination of all that had gone before, the reason for it all, the clothes they were wearing, the drinks long since consumed, the immaculately styled hair, even the aftershave, was for this.  As they lined up at their chosen club, over which there had been a small, but amicable argument, he felt that old familiar thrill of excitement that he hadn’t felt in what felt like years.  He entered to a wall of sound, heat and light, reverberating in his chest, revitalising every flagging sinew in his body.

A quick trip to the bar to load up on shots and plastic bottles of some indistinct, cheap lager, and they moved to take up some of the valuable real estate on the dancefloor.  The music pulsed unceasingly, the throngs on the floor swaying and jumping in time, together, like underwater plants swaying in the currents.  The atmosphere was electric; he felt its charge throughout his body, they had made the right decision, he felt embarrassed that there had even been a discussion on their chosen destination.  This was it, he was feeding off an emotion and a feeling that was hard to place, somewhere between contentment and euphoria, he allowed it to wash over him, as he jumped, danced and swayed with the rest, all people throwing knowing looks at each other.  Everyone felt it.  This was youth, passion, energy, the power of nights spent outside ones comfort zone.

It was on another trip to the bar that he saw her, dancing in a group not far from the space he and his mates had taken up on the floor.  She was beautiful, swaying majestically, her yellow and red dress a blur as she swirled around.  She wore flat shoes and tights, and was about half a foot shorter than he.  Her straight auburn hair was styled into an elegant bob.  He felt he could almost smell her perfume, as all around him disappeared and all he could see was her.  Then it happened, their eyes locked in a fleeting, furtive glance, his brown eyes meeting her brilliant green ones.  It could only have lasted a second, but in that second true freedom leapt up inside him. 

She was not the most beautiful girl he had seen, and yet his eyes were drawn to her again and again, more than was natural.  After half an hour of this he shook his head, hoping against hope that his mind would become more focussed.  But it was impossible.  He resolved to go to the bar and regain his composure for the rest of the night.  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed she was following him, no, not following him, he thought, going to the bar.  And yet, as he got closer he saw her aiming to the same section he was.  His heart pounded against his chest, his mind thinking of all manner of things to say, but what would pass as a good compliment?  Would he make a fool of himself? Almost certainly, he thought to himself.  It had been a long time since he had to say the right words.  His throat went dry, his lips numb, as more questions popped into his head, all those questions one asks oneself when entering the unknown.  It was certain now that they would end up talking.  He took a deep breath and turned.  She was right behind him, making a beeline for him.

“Good night isn’t it!”  He exclaimed, as she arrived next to him, he had decided to get the first words out quickly, to give at least the allusion that he had confidence in these kind of situations.  “Brilliant, its been a while since I was out” she replied.  They exchanged names and he bought her a drink.  After a short dance they found an area that was at least a few decibels quieter, and where they could talk. 

Ten minutes later he found himself telling her everything, his job, his school, his past, and then before he knew it he was talking about her, about the break up, the times he missed and the times he didn’t.  She listened intently until he stopped.  “I’m sorry” he said, “I didn’t mean to bring the night down, I got carried away!”  Her reply he knew after hearing would stick with him forever, “Don’t worry, you see that guy over there?  He just got divorced after five years of marriage, and she’s moving away with his two children, who he will hardly get to see anymore”

“Really?” he asked.

“I don’t even know that guy, but I’m guessing no” she said, “my point is that everyone has baggage, everyone has tragedy in their lives, whatever the size, you can’t live your life as if you’re the only one who has ever been heartbroken, or ever felt the sting of it being dumped by a girl, who was probably not good enough for you anyway!  I’ve learned that its these things happen, and rather than feeling sorry for yourself, get up and live your life!” and then she kissed him, softly at first, but he threw himself into it, the embrace gaining power with every second it lasted.  Any bad feelings that had still been lurking in the back of his mind disappeared in a haze of sweet perfume and auburn hair.  They pulled apart, and she took his hand, leading him back to the dance floor.

From there the night continued into more revelry, more drinks, his bank account taking a big hit, all in the name of intemperance.  He saw it as a months worth of nights out he missed in the life of a person who now seemed like a stranger to him.  No doubt it would all come back, but for tonight he was feeling euphoric. 

They spent many more stolen minutes together, away from their friends, who had at some stage converged into a much larger group.  He found her exactly what he needed, she represented more than a girl in a club to him; she represented life, new life, spent in the moment.

As he consumed more the night became increasingly blurry, he was lost in a haze of lights and sound, as his senses became dulled.  He felt the night slipping away, looking at his watch he could not tell if it was five or six o’clock, the room began to spin, and then he slipped into blackness.

Saturday morning, around 10am, he awoke to find himself still partially clothed, lying in bed, his head a cacophony of confusion and pain.  His mouth was dry and every inch of him ached, like he’d run a marathon.  As he sat up dizziness took over.  Rubbing his eyes he made the huge effort to get to his feet.  His body felt awkward, leaden, like it wasn’t used to carrying itself around, and he stopped, trying to regain some composure and almost will his body to move.

He splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth, if only to eliminate the dryness that would have surely made swallowing an implausible enterprise.  He changed, making him less clothed than before, and with thoughts of a cup of tea and bacon sandwich- the hangover cure that he subscribed to- he laboriously wrapped his dressing gown around his shoulders and moved to the kitchen.

It was upon entering the kitchen that he saw the note, stuck to his kettle, written in handwriting quite different from his own.  Putting the kettle on, he picked up the note and read, a strange fluttering erupted in his stomach as he read the lines twice through, “I put you to bed and slept on your sofa, hope you don’t mind, but I had some toast.  Call me later and we’ll go for a drink, coffee probably!” followed by a number. His heart leapt and he started back towards his bedroom to retrieve his phone, but he stopped half way to the door. 

No, first the tea and sandwich, then shower, and then phone.

He found excitement building as he got out of the shower, planning the conversation as he did, but then other thoughts crashed over him.  Did he want this?  He had just experienced a night of such freedom that he wasn’t sure anymore.  He remembered her face, her laugh, her lips, and picked up his phone.  So it begins again.