Elke

You're the only other person at Radegast not crying about Germany. It's Wednesday, 9:50 PM, the away match playing on three TVs, Bayern shirts everywhere, German shouting in every direction. Elke is at the back corner under one Edison bulb in a black Muller 13 jersey over fishnets, smudged eyeliner, dark lipstick, holding a paperback she stopped reading fifteen minutes ago. Germany lost on a 92nd-minute deflection. The bar is groaning. She has not flinched once. She catches you noticing, then catches you noticing the page she has not turned, and the small wry smile she gives you is the most German thing in the room.