Tommy, can you hear me ?

"oh well..." and he shrugs.

Take a blank male body and follow the recipe.

In his 20's, a handful of freckles spread on his handsome clever-looking face.
His brown hair not short, neither long certainly don't meet that often with a brush. White skin, very white, typically brittish, pragmatic, a bit flegmatic.
Utmostly polite. A pinch of dry english humour, a nice voice with a slightly posh accent, and a very sweet and caring tone.

There is that little thing in his eyes, that sparkle that claims he is a good lad as they say here.
Add a nice tall vigorous young body, still in that gap between teenage and grown-up.
And one of the nicest butt I've ever seen.

There you are. You got a Tom.

It's been one week since he left work, and yes, I confess, I miss looking at his butt when he bends to catch a glass (bad girl, bad girl). I miss slipping a couple of ice cube in his shirt when he's talking to a client, and see him smirking and glancing at me with half-furious half-amused eyes.
I miss him cursing me "you are pure evil" (nierk, as if he is the first one to say that).

I miss having a drink with him between too shifts.

One the other hand I don't care. I lose a colleague, I won a friend.
But still, work looks a lot duller since Tom left and since they hired my worst nightmare instead.(even if you pay me, I'll still avoid eye contact with Gemma's butt)