Resentment

Dinner in Montecito (ACT II)

San Ysidro Ranch, Montecito, CA, 1st Sept 1997
8:22pm

"So, you wanna make a scene?" Michael was unaware that by trying not to scowl, his brows were dancing like emancipated caterpillars from a jar. He was hissing.

Like a snake.
Afia winced inwardly, because when Michael started hissing, the interaction automatically turned combative.

Michael could cut a hole through her with the vitriol in his stare.

He was radioactive.

Afia was trying to master indifference as a perceivable emotion on her face, but Michaels eyes were making her nervy.

She cocked a brow, trying hard not to let her lip tremble as she curled it into a smirk, "A scene? With a drink?" She giggled, covering her mouth, to feign coyness.

It was unbelievable.
Totally inconceivable.
A fucking nightmare.

Michael could not comprehend for the life of himself, why his wife was so hellbent on making him an anxious ball of fury in public.

In front of strangers.

It was always, The Jackson's, or Michael and Afia against the world.
They used to be superheroes.
Back to back with the gun fingers.
Mr and Mrs Incredible.

Now as Afia summoned a waiter, Michael watched her with a sickness growing deep inside of him.

It wasn't the Michael and Afia show anymore.
There wasn't even a show.

And if there was, he hadn't been forwarded the script yet.
He didn't know how to play this game, because she had become so unpredictable.

Bidding for any reaction from him, good or bad.

"..So," Afia drawled, clicking a manicured finger nail on the laminated menu, "I'll go with steak" She smiled sweetly up at the waiter who was trembling.

The waiter was clearly struggling with the reality that he was going to be waiting on the King and Queen of Pop tonight.
His hands were trembling as he held his small notepad, scribbling frantically at Afia's requests.

The waiters were always dressed incredibly here.
Crisp white shirts, with little red napkins in their breast pockets.
Black trousers, and little black waist aprons to match.

"Of course ma'am.." The waiter scribbled, "I would recommend the Wagyu steak over T-Bone, it's much more tender.." The young man whose name tag read "Stephen" was speaking so fast he would run out of breath.

His forehead was gathering beads of sweat.

Michael could taste his nerves, and even though Michael was angry, the feeling was being overridden with mild amusement.

"I'll have the Wag-hue.." Afia stated oh so matter of factly.

"-You mean Wag-yu?" Michael chuckled, and that fickle smile was flashing again.