Off-Key

After visiting Sladdi—sick, slightly wrecked—Sabse, Tomi, Anne, and I ended up at karaoke. The kind of Berlin night that becomes a whole thing without anyone planning it.

The performances were bad in exactly the right way. Girls with overbites attacking ballads they couldn’t reach. Guys singing directly into their neighbor’s face instead of the microphone. A small army of Amy Winehouse impersonators who’d gotten the beehive right but not the voice. At least two men who appeared to share a genetic template with Peter Griffin from Family Guy, breathing heavily in the general direction of the stage.

We each had our own private reason to stay. Sabse was apparently gaining some kind of anthropological insight into her romantic history. Tomi had zeroed in on one of the Amy Winehouse devotees with a focus that suggested he wasn’t going anywhere. And me—there was a blonde friend of hers, and Thai noodles with sausage from a nearby stand that were genuinely delicious right up until my body decided otherwise, and then I felt absolutely terrible, and it was a perfect night.