THE BODYGUARD (Michael Jackson)

For Mature Audience.

1987
Calabasas, California

"Do you like being a bodyguard?"

"Yeah-It pays good." Michael peered at her through his peripheral vision.

"Do you like being a film director's wife?" He mumbled out, his voice barely above a whisper. Bringing his hand up to his face he brushed a few strands of curly hair away.

Salma exhaled from her mouth harshly. She glanced up, her face tensing.
"I-Uh-Nice-It's nice," she stammered, nodding her head along to her words.

"Nice?"

Her brows shot up and her lips curled into a playful grin. "Nice." A soft chuckle left her parted lips as she shook her head slightly.
"I'm sorry-I'm not no good with words," she giggled, cupping her hand over her mouth.

"No-I'm sorry I asked that-That was a real' stupid question." He cringed, folding his arms across his chest.

She brought her hand away from her mouth; bringing up to the ends of her braid.
"It wasn't stupid. Nobody's ever asked me that before," she laughed, trailing off towards the end of her sentence.

Her eyes lingered down and the pad of her thumb prickled by the dry ends of hair. Staring blankly at the floor; her brows knitted and her lips stretched into a straight line.

'Nice,' she repeated to herself.

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