Ayran

Ayrin remained silent in the noisy company of colleagues. At the restaurant table, pretending to be one of them, he slowly sipped wine, although he did not have the slightest sympathy for alcohol. He just watched, studied their drunken faces, caught snatches of phrases. His face, like a frozen mask, radiated impassibility, calmness bordering on frightening indifference. Many brought their wives, and some even dared to show up with their spouse and her daughter. Irene looked at this performance with barely concealed disgust. He himself, a stranger to sociability and romance, did not share the desire of colleagues to surround themselves with beauties and lavish compliments. He considered himself unworthy of such a thing, convinced himself that women had never shown interest in him, and neither had men. – Let's drink it! one of the guys suggested cheekily, smiling and reaching for a bottle to Ayrin's glass. But he just covered it with his palm, silently refusing.