She hates beer.
She knows it's an oxymoron, mainly because of herself. A German would never utter those words, would never harbor those feelings. So she tries to be a westerner thru and true; Loud and brash, not caring for the feelings of others; She thinks the looks should match the attitude.
And she already knows everyone thinks of her that way.
Still, she hates beer, because it's a reminder of her; the one who got close to him before her, the one who gets to be open and happy and true.
The one who can flirt and tease him, and whose only response would be a gawk, a hushed 'eep', a bashful smile and a sheepish rubbing of the back of his neck.
She would kill just to be the one he directed his eyes to.
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She loves her room.
Not because it's bigger than that cupboard he had to take (and after all, as a gentleman he should have offered first), and not because it allows her to seek sanctuary from the tough everyday goings of her life, her responsibilities.
Her lies and posturing and facades.
She loves it because during the last hours of the afternoon, just before the sun starts to set, and colors the sky with a yellowish-orangeish-reddish-purpleish-blackish hue, the evening breeze will make her room smell like the first time she set foot in it.
She will then walk out the windows, and gaze at the darkening sky, close her eyes and just let the smell envelope her, closing her eyes with a contented sigh as she crashes on her bed glomping her pillow a tad to fiercely for a girl like her.
Because all of it; the night breeze, and the room and the pillow where she cries herself to sleep at times still smells like him.