Pictures of the waiter were posted without consent by a regular

Eric, a bald, burly man in his 60s, wears jackets year-round, orders only water or soda and leaves a $20 tip on the sticky top of the bar. Generosity or attempts to buy my attention, I never think about his motives again.

At the notorious TriBeCa dive bar downtown where I work, he has his favorites: Sochi, with her curly black hair and caramel eyes; Mallory, a longtime bar legend in her mid-30s who recently returned from a new job; Brittany from Jersey, with her navel piercing and sleeve tattoo.

“You want Eric in your rotation,” veterans tell us. “He leaves great tips and will spread the word about you. You’ll get bigger crowds, which means more money.”

I never think to ask how the word got around.

As we taxied home at 4 a.m. after work, the other girls and I complained about Eric’s hugs and his demanding requests for photos. Our boss, Tom, likes his presence and doesn’t seem to mind his behavior; After all, his enthusiasm, care and services are good for business.

With his thick camera strap slung around his neck, Eric seems to know everyone. Other men notice the air of importance he carries himself. They engage in lighthearted conversations, talking about opinions on the Mets’ season and criticisms of the mayor. But the regulars look at each other with knowing looks, almost pitying expressions that suggest they sense something is wrong. They are aware of the unspoken dynamics at play, but are unwilling to risk disrupting the delicate balance of power between our roles as decorating service decorators and their positions as paying customers.

At some point, one of my regular Thursday night clients leans over and says, “I didn’t know you had a tattoo there,” pointing to the part of my upper back between my shoulder blades. “I saw this picture of you,” he adds with a sly smile. My heart breaks when he opens a website filled with pictures of me and other waitresses, half-naked and half-drunk, plastered across forums where men share the locations and work schedules of their favorites — whom they casually refer to as “the waitress.”

I only remember standing in front of a few of them.

“You’re from Texas, right?” He continues, smiling as if he’s stumbled upon an interesting secret.

Not long after, she started dating a Friday night pastor named James. He asks my opinions and listens intently, laughing at our mutual appreciation for dark humor. He reads poetry, and we talk about our travel dreams. One night, while having coffee at the nearby restaurant, James revealed that Eric had approached him at the bar earlier that week.

“Just so you know, I saw her go into the bathroom with Dave. Careful. She’s a manipulative bitch. She’ll act like she only likes you for your money,” Eric warned him. James’s expression hardens when he recounts this interaction, but he assures me he knows it’s bullshit.

Isn’t that the point, I guess? She walks into a bar that only employs young women, and leaves hundreds of bills along with abandoned drinks, forcing them to take photos so she can share them alongside captions reflecting on their private lives. I don’t even know who Dave is, but it shouldn’t matter.

Shortly after, my photos stopped appearing on the site. And no one is asking about me in the posts My conversion numbers are starting to drop. James moves on to someone else.

During my last week at the bar, the moment Eric walked in, camera in hand and a huge smile on his face, I could feel the tension rising. He sweeps Suchi off her feet in an aggressive hug, walks past me without a glance, and introduces himself to the new girl, Natalie, who I’m training.

I’m not giving up because of Eric. Or James. I’m not giving up because I finally have a lucrative writing job or a more stable, higher-paying day job. I just stop showing up. It’s a stage in my life where boredom consumes me, and I’m always chasing something that promises to make me feel more alive. I’m no longer Molly the waitress from Texas. Now, Molly, I’m out of work again and even worse.

The next week, a text from Sochi appeared on my phone: “Hey, want to go to the bar later? Eric left you an envelope.

When I arrived, I found her leaning outside against a brick wall, taking a slow drag on a cigarette. “We miss you,” she says, her voice tinged with sincerity, before turning around and heading back inside, leaving me with a strange sense of finality. I never see her again.