I continued to work at the bar even though I wanted to cry on my apartment floor, but I had bills to pay now. I needed food and electricity and all the other essentials that I’d taken for granted when I’d married into wealth. That meant I was required to show up for my shift, regardless of the state of my mental health.
It was a quiet night at the bar. Some of the tables had occupants, but no one sat at the stools at the counter. I had no one to wait on, which meant no tips, which meant a smaller paycheck. A lot of people assumed that people who worked in hospitality in France were paid a great salary without tips, but that really wasn’t true. We’d come to ask for tips and gratuities on tabs because additional income was needed to survive in a city like this.
No one was around, so I pull
