The bar was full of people, young men and women pressed together in the windowless, beery basement. A battered jukebox blared rock music over the shouted conversation. Three people, two men and a woman, sat in a booth beside the jukebox with several empty pitchers before them. They slumped forward over the table, hands occasionally limply lifting a glass of beer to slack lips.
Dido fought her way through the throng to the table, carrying a foam-crested pitcher and four more glasses. She thumped them down on the table harder than she had intended — she was a little drunk — and laughed as the other three jumped. “Slide over,” she said to the man who sat on the bench by himself. He grunted and made room for her. “God,” she said, loudly, and laughed again, as she poured herself a glass of beer. “What a week!”
Micha glared at her. “For the love of christ,” he growled, “can’t you put a sock in it?”
She kicked him under the table. “Dammit,” he said. He was studying German. He hated it fluently and at length.
“Here,” Dido said. “Drink up!” She poured four glasses. She laughed, and slumped against Sean.