Substitute
He thinks I don't see it but I do.
The way he looks at her when he thinks I'm not watching. The way the temperature drops slightly whenever she walks into the room, his eyes straight to the floor.
Just as I was starting to get somewhere she turned up. Five years of hard work all down the drain thanks to miss Alabama.
"Sorry John, can't today; I promised Marie I'd help her with her History assignment"
Too busy following her around like a love-sick puppy to even give me a second glance.
He knows he can never touch her. In some sick way, I guess I have her to thank for this; if it wasn't for her, I often wonder if I would be graced with these late night visits.
He just turned up one night. Walked across the room and climbed into my bed, as if it had been that easy all along.
I can kid myself that it's me he's thinking of when he slides into my bed each night. Gentle fingers tracing down my spine making me shudder. Those soft, vulnerable whimpers he makes when I move down the length of his body.
He thinks I don't hear him calling out her name when he comes.
I know I'm being used. And it's unfair and it's cruel, but for a couple of minutes afterwards it really doesn't matter. He'll look at me, hands resting gently on his stomach, wearing the same white t- shirt he's worn to bed since he was thirteen, and I'll forget.
Forget that I'll always come second place, because in Bobby's head, I'm just a substitute for the unattainable.
He'll arch into me and I'll wonder if being a substitute is such a bad thing.