IT'S ALMOST OVER NOW, and Charlize is on the beach, enjoying the last few moments of it. We were hoping to find a better patch of sand, something more pristine or at least private, some idyllic little cove where she could sit and relish her last breath of freedom. But whatever. This will have to do, this stretch of public beach in Malibu, with seagulls and sparrows chittering among fast-food bags, with crying kids and distracted fathers on cell phones. She flicks the ash from her cigarette, drops down cross-legged on the dunes, reaches into a plastic bag for a beer. Rolling Rock. There's wind and the sun is low, not quite the magic hour, but close. She pops the beer, tilts it back. Two seconds, three, four, her broad blue eyes drifting to the side as she goes, her pale thin neck turning, her arched eyebrows suddenly jumping at the sight of a police truck a hundred yards away. She lowers the bottle, wiping her lips with the back of a hand. Beer's not allowed on public beaches. "Uh-oh," she says, stowing it between her knees. "Cops."
A laugh erupts, her laugh, the opposite of ... // 86% Remaining
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