Free After Her by Amber Kay

you were happy there?”
    I don’t reply immediately because the question feels so random. Why is she interested in my home life? These aren’t the kinds of questions I’ve ever received from any other potential employer.
    “Um…yeah, I was,” I say, scrambling for words. “I love Montana. It’s gorgeous every season. Cool in the springs. Mild in the summers.”
    “Sounds like a pretty wholesome place,” she remarks.
    “Yeah, I guess so. The town is pretty small so everyone there knows each other.”
    “So why did you abandon it for the cesspool of sin, Orange Country?”
    I feel like I'm talking to my mother. She’s asked me this question several times.
    “Well, I received a two year scholarship for Northham,” I say. “It’s not a university you turn down. I was waitlisted for months.”
    “And your parents?”
    I shrug, expecting her to elaborate further on the question.  “What about them?”
    “What are their occupations?” she clarifies.
    I stare dubiously at her, trying to uncover her motives.
    “You’re asking about my parents? If this is a job interview, what do they have to do with anything?”
    “It’s sort of a psychological exam,” she replies. “All employees are screened. It helps filter out the crazies.”
    I remain stoic, for some reason unconvinced by her answer, but not wholeheartedly suspicious.
    “Well…um, my mom is an elementary school teacher,” I say. “And my dad has a farm back home. He is the local go-to man for the freshest milk, eggs and dairy in town. It wasn’t the most exciting upbringing.”
    “Your parents are divorced, I presume?” 
    “ Annulled ,” I say as my mother would with an emphasis on each syllable of the word.
    “Why?”
    “Why… what ?” I ask.
    “Why did your parents annul their marriage?” she asks.
    With a feeling of mental whiplash, I stare wide-eyed at her. “You’re asking about my parents’ martial issues?”
    “It’s pertinent for me to familiarize myself with your mindset,” she says. “If your parents separated when you were young, it’s possible that you could have suffered from the emotional backlash. I need to know about the environment you grew up in as a child.”
    “This is way too in depth to for a simple job interview,” I say. “What position am I interviewing for exactly?”
    “I’ve already gone over the rules Cassandra,” she replies impatiently. “Answer my questions first then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
    “Asking me personal questions isn’t part of the deal,” I say.
    She chuckles dismissively as if my demands are trite and she’s choosing to ignore them.
    “Cassandra, I haven’t asked the personal questions yet.”
    I glare at her. I don’t know why, but that response irks me. Perhaps because of her smarmy voice or that strong sense of obvious entitlement she feels to ask these kinds of questions. She scrawls something onto a notepad that she pulls from inside her briefcase.
    I can’t read what it says since she purposely obstructs my view by holding it upright.
    “Will this entire lunch be spent with you asking inappropriate questions and me submitting to your every whim?” I ask.
    “I sincerely hope that you’re not the submissive type,” she says. “It’s such an unattractive trait in a woman.” 
    “This isn’t a job interview, is it?” I say. “Because it’s starting to feel more like a date.”
    She laughs aloud, but doesn’t appear offended by my allegation.
    “I'm not a lesbian,” she says. “I have experimented with many alternative lifestyles, but lesbianism isn’t one of them.”
    I gape at her, stunned by her response. As I scramble to find some mental equanimity, I hear Sasha in my head chanting a single word: prude .
    “Are you surprised that I'm not a lesbian…or disappointed?” she asks with a fierce look of devilish intent in her eye. When I don’t reply, she adds, “Don’t worry. That was a rhetorical question. I don’t mean