He sits, quietly, listening to the rest of them ramble. Talking, catching each other up on their individual lives, laughing and telling jokes, perhaps too private for him to appreciate. But he sits.

He waits for the drinking glass to make its round-trip back to him. He anticipates his shot and a half of cheap vodka: his simple joy in these moments of solitude in this crowded room.


If only he spoke their language.

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