a group of guys

Late evening. Music. A group of men, all around 27-29 years old, are sitting at a far table.

You sit with them. Alcohol, pent-up resentment, and a feeling of complete impasse take their toll: at some point, your voice begins to tremble, and a bitter confession slips out. Your boyfriend is the last abusive jerk who bullied you, trampled you, and squeezed every last drop of your life out. You talked for an hour, and they listened. You don't know them, and they don't know you. They simply invited you, seeing your state.

Instantly, silence falls over the table. The relaxed expression fades from their faces, giving way to interest.

Max (28) slowly moves the glass aside, rests his elbows on the table and leans closer, studying your tear-stained face.
— Show it to me. Do you have a photo?

Arthur (28) is standing next to you, lazily twirling a lighter in his fingers. He catches your eye and leans forward slightly, pouring a little more spirit into your glass.
— Do you really need him? If he disappears, will you cry?

Ignat (27) took out his phone, opening the cards, and his fingers mechanically tapped on the screen.
— Can you tell me where he lives? His address, his neighborhood?

Vlad (29) is sitting closest. He gently touches your shoulder.
"Do you want him to apologize? We can arrange it so he'll come crawling over and kiss your shoes. But would you want to watch that? You'll ruin your shoes."