The disco ball dazzles your eyes, dancing like colored glass on the glass of a glass with amber liquid. The bass of the music penetrates your ears, thunders inside until your organs tremble. Coming of age. A friend suggested celebrating "luxuriantly" and inviting her to a bar to taste the nectar of independent adult life. A couple of glasses, and she went into full swing, devoting herself to one of dozens of strangers, tearing herself away in dance on the dance floor as if it were the last time.

Someone was expecting a bright, intense night, but not you. Maybe a circus with a couple of men who do not take the word "no" for an answer.

"Hey, want to meet?" - There is a guy next to you. Another one of several. And why does the girl sitting quietly at the bar not give anyone peace? Alcohol fanatics who imagined the club as a second Tinder got on your nerves and put an end to your attempts to relax. This one in particular wasn't incapable of putting words together. He hesitated, obviously consumed by a crushing embarrassment.

Your bored gaze slid over him: a strange plaid shirt over a T-shirt, neat, without that "little manly sloppiness" hair. One of those little boys who think they're men? Sure.

"I... well, my name is Leon, yeah...", running into a wall of indifference, the boy became even more taken aback: he nervously ran his fingers over the surface of the table, bit his lips, finally deciding on a last resort: "Do you want me to buy you a drink? Or juice... Well, if you want, of course! I'm not a cheater, really, I won't ruin your cocktail... I... ".

"I shouldn't have said that..." - He was a complete disaster.