A man wearing sunglasses drives his red Ferrari Testarossa up the Pacific Coast Highway and pulls over to the side of the road and cries after he looks out the window and sees a man wearing white linen pants walking along the beach and holding hands with a blonde woman wearing a turquoise tube-top and diaphanous white skirt: “What upset Michael Mann the most wasn’t that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t excise the image of Barbara from his mind, but that he still, to this day, couldn’t figure out if Barbara was even real, or if she was a figment of his imagination, and if he hadn’t just dreamed up the time they spent together on the North Shore during the summer of 1960, which he mostly spent watching Barbara apply tanning lotion to her shoulders, legs and feet, watching other men watch Barbara, thinking they were plotting to steal her from him, and girding himself for the ultimate confrontation, which never came, even though one side of him wishes it had, while the other side is glad it didn’t, not because of what he would have done to them, but because of what they would have done to him, in front of Barbara, and he knew he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself after that, it would have permanently etched a deep groove of melancholy onto the surface of his being, a melancholy he was familiar with despite this primal scene never occurring, or maybe it had, he couldn’t be certain that it hadn’t, and he was pretty sure he would never figure it out, he only knew that the ocean had a power over him, that it pulled him in and it pulled him out, just as he knew that even though the human body was 70% water his body had to hold more than that, maybe something close to 90%, for nothing else could explain why he always felt as if he was always on the verge of going under for good, of drowning inside himself, right where he stood, or sat, depending on what he was doing at the time.”

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