Den to dance floor.

Every frame implies someone just out of shot. A fire is burning, a chess game is mid-move, a record turns beside a coupe already poured. The bottle stands on the table as if it had been set down a minute ago, label to camera, by whoever is about to come back.

Materials do the period work: green cloth-bound books, a red Persian rug, a teal velvet curtain, a green marble counter edged in brass. A rocks glass with an ice sphere, an old fashioned with orange peel, a sour in a coupe. Three serves, one bottle.

Two frames leave the house for the dance floor, the crowd turned into colour and movement behind the bar. The label stays crisp in front. It is the same bottle, now at the loudest point of the night, and it looks as at home there as by the fire.