It had started out as a release, a one time thing. Just to get her out of his system he'd told himself, but somewhere down the line, it had become a habit. He couldn't have the real thing so imagination and second bests would fill the gap.
Those evenings when Jay would slip out to a club, bar, pub, leaving his Gran doubled over her knitting awaiting a night cap; it was a routine.
He'd find that girl, with short brown hair, apple cheeks and a steady hazel gaze. Never quite her - they smiled too easily, gave too much of themselves up, didn't posses the sarcastic humour that made him tingle with something that wasn't quite irritation. They were never quite her, but they dulled the ache – just for a while.
Pressed up against the wall of the gents, her head bouncing against the wall as he panted into her neck. Thrusting, scratching and moaning, he'd let his desires take him over. Before his eyes they'd morph into her and he'd come undone, murmuring her name.
At that they would all freeze, correct him. Jane, Lucy, Hannah, Lara. But Jay would be long gone, the ache would be back, so what did it matter? Louise, Anna, Mary, Jo, Sarah, would leave smoothing down their clothing and dabbing at their lipstick.
In another couple of hours the day would start again. With more pointed glances, flinches at touches.
The habit would stay, silently scheduled, until he could have the real thing.