In a few hours Dan Bodan would lean his head against the curve of the staircase and cry out to the bar. But for now it was quiet. Two German girls sat in the corner drinking white wine.

The neighbor came in. I was slicing limes. He told me about his daughter and how he had smoked too much weed in Amsterdam. Dan Bodan arrived with a floppy tote bag filled with cords. “Last night was so crazy.” I handed him a beer and he recounted the evening while plugging things in.

Three tall Swedish girls fell through the door. “Where's the bathroom?” The neighbor pointed up the stairs. They ordered whiskey sours. I spooned maraschino cherries into the garnish tray.

Dan Bodan continued, “…and he’s not even her friend, it’s like why was he asked to come to this when she doesn’t even understand what he’s trying to do with the work?” I nodded emptying the ashtray into the trash below the sink.

One of the Swedish girls shouted across the bar, “Where were you when Whitney died?”

Dan picked up the microphone and began to sing, “If I should stay, I would only be in your way, so I’ll go, but I know, I’ll think of you every step of the way...” They applauded and asked, “Do you want shots?” “Not yet,” Dan responded.

More people began to shuffle in; it was getting closer to midnight. Claudia Rech leaned over the bar for a double kiss while ordering a spritz. We talked about summer as I poured Aperol into her glass.

Dan Bodan asked for another beer and Max Simmer mouthed “gin and tonic” while holding up two fingers.

The door swung open and Juliette Bonneviot walked in. In one long breath she bemoaned the trains which “were fucked today, beer please.” Lindsay Lawson slipped behind the bar to adjust the audio for Dan Bodan while I made her a Moscow Mule.

The bar was filling up. Nic Ceccaldi commented on the painting by Petra Cortright above the bar while I poured his red wine. Yael Salomonowitz pushed a twenty into my hands and told me her “day was shit” and she needed vodka.

Dan Bodan hoisted himself on top of the bar and I quickly moved the blue candles. He positioned himself, beer in one hand and microphone in the other. He motioned to me to turn up the mixer.

The set was short, holding the final note of “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” he slid off the bar. He absorbed the end of the applause with his back facing the audience. I got him another beer.

I wiped the top of the bar down and moved the blue candles back. There was a rush to get drinks. Nik Kosmas wanted a whiskey; he waited grinding on the side of the bar. Three Germans ordered vodka sodas. I filled glasses with ice.

Dan Keller leaned over the side of the bar and plugged his iPod into the headphone jack.

Across the room Yael Salomonowitz took her black jacket off and began to twirl it over her head with one hand. “Robbie, get me a drink,” she called.

She was laughing and twirling her jacket sloppily with one hand and digging through her purse with the other. The entire bar was staring. I waited while Timur Si-Qin searched his pockets to show me a photo on his phone.

Yael continued to swing her jacket faster and faster until it knocked her purse off the table, its contents scattering underneath the benches.

Yngve Holen slid three euro across the bar but I was distracted by Yael. She was sitting on the bench, looking down at the floor, shaking her head and clutching her purse. She moved dramatically from side to side staring at the floor, lipstick, wallet, coins. She lifted her left leg up, then her right. “Where are my keys?” she moaned, leaning backwards.

Robert Fitzpatrick shrugged and smiled at Marlie Mul as she descended the steps from the back room. Without leaving his bar stool Dan Bodan asked her where she had been. I listened to Rupert Smyth, Simon Denny and Dan Bodan talk about London while I salted the rim of a Margarita glass.

Yael moved the table first to the left and then the right. She got to her knees and draped herself over the bench looking frantically from side to side.

Britta Thie ordered a coke. It was just past one in the morning and almost time for Dan Bodan’s second set. He finished his beer in one gulp and ordered a Riesling. Pablo Larios leaned on the corner of the bar and asked, “Have you seen Dan Denorch?” I pointed towards the basement.

The street sweepers on the curb were filling the bar with intermittent flashes of bright orange light. Jaime Whipple motioned for a beer as the room turned golden and Oliver Laric and Aleksandra Domanović put their jackets on and said goodnight.

I set a Whiskey Sour on the bar for Martin Thacker while Natascha Goldenberg took a photo of Florian Ludwig and Marlous Borm near the door. The three tall Swedish girls ordered shots of vodka. “Make them big,” one of them said while laughing.

Marlous Borm greeted Mia Goyette. “How was New York?” Across the room Yael lifted the bench she had been sitting on, vertically bracing it with her arms, stretching the long sleeves of her dress.

Yael turned to Robert Fitzpatrick. “Where are my keys, Robbie?” Before he could answer, Dan Bodan began to address the audience. “As always, thank you for coming out this evening—here’s one of my favorites.” The neighbor slipped back into the bar, and mouthed “bier.”

I refilled Dan Bodan’s glass of wine while he was singing. Yael paused with the bench still vertical; she laid it back down quietly and sat looking at the floor gripping her torso. I added more pretzels to the dark blue bowls sitting next to the candles. Skye Chamberlain scooped a handful.

The street sweepers drove past the window again, and the bar was filled with light. Yael’s keys shimmered beneath a stool.