A few hours of silence passed by. Anna picked up the coffee mug with little stains of dried up coffee on the rim and lazily walked to the kitchen. She passed by Michael’s room and saw a passing glance of him sitting in a chair and reading a book with his legs resting on the edge of the bed. He looked up as he saw Anna pass by, but they did not meet each other’s gaze. she washed the coffee mug, gave it a little shake to drip off the excess water and placed it on a hook along with the other mugs. She then picked out fresh, red tomatoes from the refrigerator and began chopping them. As she was dicing them, a sweet, musky scent and a shadow on the chopping board made her look up
“what u makin?” Michael asked with a hopeful smile
“spaghetti”
“I hate spaghetti, you know that Anna”
“I’m making it for myself” Anna replied indifferently and continued dicing the tomatoes as Michael moved passed her to get a bottle of water
“Anna” Michael fussed “we’re going to be here for the next fourteen days, do you want to spend them all just fighting?”
“we’re not fighting Michael”
“okay, then do you want to spend these fourteen days not talking to me at all?”
“you did that for over a year, I’m sure you can do it for another fourteen days”
“Ann” he said taking her hand “Oops, you almost cut me” he laughed taking the knife from her hand and placing it on the table “please, don’t do this. You’re always complaining about how I never spend enough time with you and now for the next fourteen days when I’m all yours and only yours you’re not even talking to me!”
“what after that Michael?”
“I’m always yours”
“that’s what you said before too”
“and haven’t I been there for you? what do you want me to do? Stop making music, stop recording or going on tours and spend all the day with you?”
“No, but just be with me at least when you’re physical there with me” Anna replied a tear rolling down her cheek
Seeing her cry, Michael realised how much she had been hurting. Finally, when he paused and gazed into her eyes he seemed to remember the promises he made and how he had never been able to keep them.
“Anna, I didn’t know you were so upset. Why didn’t you say anything baby?” he asked softly, his anger cooling down
“it’s nothing Michael” she replied wiping off her tear hastily with her sleeves and taking the knife back to chop the tomatoes “I’ll make us lunch”
“No, we need to talk. I need to know what you’re feeling. For the past two years everything has been about me and I got so carried away by work that I never bothered to ask how you were doing” he grabbed her hips and turned her around so that she now fully faced him, he ducked as Anna’s arms flung and the knife almost cut him. He took it from her hand again and placed it in the kitchen drawer behind him “let’s keep it here for now, just as a precaution” he chuckled, he turned back to face Anna “tell me. Tell me everything”
“I don’t know what to say Michael” Anna replied
“hmm…okay, here’s a plan” he rushed into his room and returned with a writing pad and pen. He tore out a piece of paper and gave it to anna “write down five things that you’ve been wanting to tell me for the past two years and I haven’t been there to listen. By that time, I…” he removed the apron from Anna and put it on himself “…will cook us lunch”. He smiled
“Michael, you can’t make anything but French toast”
“hey! A man can try” he replied sounding hurt
“ya, we’re going to go hungry today” Anna said taking the writing pad and sitting down on the kitchen stool to write and watch Michael Jackson try his hand at cooking spaghetti.
Anna watched as Michael diced the onions and cried like a little baby, he would chop twice, bring his hand to his face, wipe his tears then chop again and then wipe his face again. Finally after the onions were diced, Michael started chopping the chilli. His eyes were still teary and so unknowingly he wiped it again and immediately started screaming like phoebe from F.R.I.E.N.D.S “my eyes, my eyes”. Anna got up immediately, guided a semi-blind Michael to the basin and splashed cold water on his eyes.
“I told you not to cook”
“I can handle it” Michael replied dabbing his eye with a towel “this is how one becomes a MasterChef Ann”
“ya right” she laughed
“now you get back to the writing, while the chef prepares the best spaghetti you’ve ever had”
After what seemed like a day, lunch was finally prepared. Michael placed the spaghetti on the table and smiled proudly “lunch is served milady” he said with a French accent
They sat down. Michael prepared a plate for her and one for himself. He watched as Anna spun her fork and took a bite of the noodles. She smiled
“well, for a guy who doesn’t like spaghetti you can cook a good one. It is delicious Michael”
“thank you. the chef appreciates your complement” he smiled and started eating
“mmm… how’s the chef’s eye?”
“it’s much better now. Thanks for asking. By the way this is delicious, isn’t it?”
“it is”
“oh, I’ve made some orange juice as well. Totally forgot about it” he said jumping up and going into the kitchen. He picked up the jug and got two glasses.
“how’s it?” he asked as Anna sipped a bit of the juice
“it’s good. It would have been better though if you had added sugar instead of salt”
“what!” Michael asked and took a sip immediately. He spat it out “yuck”
“did the chef get confused between sugar and salt?” Anna asked chuckling
“no, this is a chef’s special salted orange juice. It’s an acquired taste, not everyone likes it”
“oh, is that so?”
“yes” Michael smiled
“so, have you written down everything?” he asked after they were both done with lunch and lazily sat in their chairs unable to move due to being too full
“umm yes, sort of… I mean, I don’t know”
“let me see it”
She handed him the writing pad and Michael carefully read it, slowly taking in each written word:
What I wanted to say
when you returned from the bad tour and immediately started working on the new album:
“Michael aren’t you tired? You’ve worked sleeplessly for the past fourteen months. Take rest, baby you need sleep. Your mind is tired, I see how you keep yourself forcefully awake each night practicing the routine again and again. you are not a robot or a money-making machine that the producers want you to be, you’re human and you’re prefect. Don’t be so harsh on yourself. It’s okay to be tired, just rest a while.
When the tabloid headlines bothered you, especially that one morning when the paper read ‘Michael Jackson’s bleaching his skin. He looks like a plastic doll’ and you shut yourself inside the bathroom and cried for hours and shut me out:
“the tabloids are all lies Michael. they just want to sell the paper. They neither know you nor want to. As long as these rumours sell, they’ll keep creating them. they don’t know about your vitiligo Michael. and my god, You’re beautiful. Just once look at yourself through my eyes, look at that pretty smile of yours, those eyes, those hands, that beautifully handsome face. And those surgeries, you do them because you want them. It’s your choice. Nobody else has a say in it. if a woman does it, they’ll be like, it’s her choice, it’s her money and her life, the world has no right to interfere with it. the same should be true for a man too. why the double standards? To me you will always, always be the most beautiful man on earth.
p.s. sorry for that feminist rant, the social double standards just piss me off.
On our first anniversary:
Happy first anniversary Michael! the flowers and the gifts you kept in the room before going off to the studio were beautiful, but I would have liked it even more if you were next to me when I woke up that day. You promised to be back home early but couldn’t because of some sudden changes to the song that you had to add. It’s okay, I waited for you the entire night, by the time you came home the dinner was cold and you had already eaten at the studio so I threw it out. By the time I came upstairs you were fast asleep so I never got to wish you, or even give you a little kiss.
When you returned disheartened on the grammy night:
The bad album was brilliant. The songs were beautiful. I know you put your heart and soul into it. they ripped you off the award Michael but not of your talent. You’ll produce more amazing songs and albums. You’re bigger than all these awards put together.
But what I’ve wanted to tell you most every day for the past two years:
“I love you Michael. I’m here for you. I hate to see you suffer alone. I hate to hear your muffled cries from the bathroom or see the dripping mascara on your face when you return from the studio. Talk to me, fight with me, cry with me, laugh with me, play with me, annoy me, pamper me, but please don’t shut me out. Do you not love me anymore? You never look at me, you never kiss me or make love to me. Michael, are you…tired of me?
Michael’s eyes brimmed with tears as he finished reading the letter. he tilted his face upwards to keep them from falling down.
“Anna” he softly spoke after a few minutes of silence...