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It was a particularly cold night in early January and the restaurant was nearly empty. Saturday nights are normally very busy and the bar usually gets packed with hungry guests who order drinks while they wait up to an hour for a table. The wait staff where I work is required to wear black pants, white dress shirts and ties, but the bartenders are allowed to dress a little more casually. I usually wear black leather pants, black patent leather pumps with stiletto heels, and a black, skin-tight, long-sleeved turtleneck made from a thin, shiny spandex kind of material that looks like it was spray-painted on to my body. I have a 36C chest, and this shirt leaves nothing to the imagination. I part my long red hair in the middle and tie it into two braids that hang in front of my shoulders down towards my chest. Guys are always hitting on me, and the occasional girl will flirt with me, too.

I often leave the restaurant after a Saturday night shift with over $150 cash in my pocket, money I desperately needed, but this night was dead. The weathermen were predicting a snowstorm to begin around 8:00, and although no snow had fallen yet, the warning was enough to scare people away from leaving their houses. I convinced the manager to send the other bartender home so that I might make a little more money, and he was sympathetic to my needs as a starving artist. I’m 24 and struggling to earn a living from my art, so I have to bartend to make ends meet. From 9:00 on I was left behind the bar by myself until closing at 11:00.

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