Resentment

The Wash Room

Neverland Ranch, Santa Barbara, Sept 1st 1997, CA

11:45am

Afia had not opened her mouth to speak to Michael since their explosive counselling session had come to an abrupt ending the day before.

She frowned, working herself into a deeper mood, as she sat cross legged on the oak floor in the wash room, watching as several red shirts turned over and over again in their soapy soup.

Every now and again, a green or black armband would appear, and she would anxiously consider the "consequences" if the colours ran.

Michael, had always been particular about his clothing.

He was unlike Afia, who was more than happy to throw all the colours together and pray for the best, Michael was insistent on separating everything by colour and tone.

Afia rolled her eyes and sighed, glancing beside her, at the small baby that lay wide awake, kicking and fussing in their Moses basket.

Ro'Lee, for once, was calm, and was not crying hysterically as she so often did in her mother's company.

Afia smiled, and reached out to brush a thumb over the soft brow of her brown dumpling.

Grinning at this, Ro'Lee tried to grab and tug at her mothers hand, and they spent a short moment, smiling at each other.

How could she not adore something so precious?
How could Michael accuse her so frequently of being an absent mother?

After having left Kleffs office, Afia marched down the steps of his practise, and pulled the doors to the huge SUV waiting outside.

She frantically swiped the tears off of her cheeks with the back of her hand, and sat in a fog of hatred, waiting for her husband to join her on the ride home.

Afia swung one leg over the other, and folded her arms, wiggling her heeled foot as she waited, impatiently.

Finally, after a good ten minutes, the passenger door beside the driver opened, and she watched her husband coldly seat himself.

He said nothing.

Acknowledged nothing.

She scorched through his neck with her eyes, hoping her venomous thoughts would turn his head, just so she could snap, and ask, "what are you looking at?"

But he made no movement.
The car pulled off in silence, and when it arrived back on the ranch, she waited for him to leave the vehicle and enter the house, before she did the same.

Afia looked away from her daughter sadly, still stroking her cheek with a manicured finger.

The red shirts continued to turn, round and around, dancing forever it seemed in the washing machine.

"Is that all red?" A clipped deep voice asked from behind.

Afia dared not to turn, and her brows furrowed deeper, as she decided she was not going to talk.
She continued to watch the show, the red shirt show.