Drowning

Thirty;

I hadn't spoken to my family much, if at all. My dad was occasionally in contact, but we always had been. We didn't always get along, and he was a stern, opinionated man who didn't know how to show love or affection, and sure, maybe growing up he was absent a majority of the time and had no clue of how to deal with, or bring up, children, but hey. He was the best of a bad bunch.

So, the surprise I felt when my sister called me this morning was most definitely justified.

"I'm calling to make amends with you. Conflict isn't good for the baby, and though we still believe that you are unwell and need to check back into a psychiatric ward, we also believe that it is healthiest for us all if we made up." she had said. Her voice was so full of certainty and I knew that arguing against it wasn't an answer, even if she was being a bitch about it. I'd just said that, yes, of course I agreed with her.

The phone call was short and I was thankful for that. Sure, it ended with me feeling deflated, but this was normal. This was normality.

Something that was not normality, for me, however; job interviews.

For my previous job, at the club, I had auditioned. There was a world of difference between auditioning, between screwing the boss, and sitting down to chat and answer interrogation-style questions. But, it had to be done.

So, here I was.

"Miss Barton-Prifti, how wonderful it is to meet you." the boss says to me, shaking my hand. He was tall, around 6ft6, and handsome. Probably around 35.

"Lovely to meet you, too, Sir." I say, my voice slightly breathless from the anxiety consuming me.

"Please, take a seat." he says, motioning to the chair opposite his desk. He took a seat behind the desk.

I sat down, straightening out the pencil dress I had on. It was black, and I had tried my best to look classy.

"So, what brings you here today?" he asks, looking at some notes on his desk.

"A friend suggested that I try for this job, and so I took her word for it." I nod. "Of course, I am capable of making my own decisions, it was just nice to have a suggestion," I trail off, sounding panicked all of a sudden. Shit.

"Amazing," he nods. "So, if we're being honest here, there haven't been many people interested in the position we are offering here," he explains. "It's pretty niche, surprisingly. Nobody wants to teach our students dance. To be honest, with you, Zahara, nobody has had the correct vibe. We're talking women in their mid-40's, which, don't get me wrong, isn't necessarily a bad thing, but somebody with a certain energy and approachable demeanour is required, or preferred." he says.

"I understand." I nod, biting the inside of my cheek.

"I understand that you went to university to study dance?"

"Yes, I did."

"Amazing results, too." he says, scanning my CV ahead of him.

"Thank you," I say.

"This friend who recommended the school to you, how did they find out about this job?" he asks.

"Lauren? She works here, as an art assistant." I nod.

"O-oh," he stutters, clearing his throat afterwards. "Of course, yes. Lauren." he nods. "Wonderful teaching assistant, truly."

"Yeah," I say, furrowing my brows together at his peculiar response.

"You have no experience in teaching, do you?" he says, changing the subject.

"No, unfortunately not."