Where did Sasha go?

Mrs. Johnson

Mrs. Johnson always woke up at the same time every morning. She opened her eyes, sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, put them on the floor, moved aside the blanket she slept under, stood up, turned around and made her bed. She was very meticulous when it came to doing her bed. It took 30 seconds and then the blanket was smooth as a stone. After this important step in her morning routine Mrs. Johnson turned around and did her morning gymnastics. It took 32 minutes and then she put on the coffee machine and took a 4 minutes shower. When she came back into the kitchen she made one plate of porridge and one sandwich with two slices of cheese and one slice of ham.

'Routines are good' thought Mrs. Johnson as she sat down on her kitchen chair and drank her coffee and ate her breakfast.

She had learnt all there was to be learnt about routines when she had been in the military. Once a soldier always a soldier and Mrs. Johnson believed firmly that the most important and most prominent characteristic of a soldier was his (or, in this case, hers) discipline. And discipline comes from routine. Routines are also a way of controlling life, she had learnt that, and when you are the most lost and confused, you are in most need of routines. She was not particularly lost right now, nor did she ever expect to be (she was a very practical person), but she thought it better to be prepared for the worst.

That was why she had a war-cupboard were she kept conserved food, just in case of war. She also had a gas mask, two rifles, one very fine gun and three fighting knifes. And she kept her routines.

Mrs. Johnson's routines demanded that she would wake up at 4.30 sharp every morning, which meant that she would eat her breakfast at 5.15. This particular morning in the summer, the birds were already singing in the trees outside of her apartment and the sun was rising steadily in the east, sending her beams all over the city and the house and Mrs. Jonhson's face. Mrs. Johnson enjoyed this morning, she felt alert and perky (even though she would not put it that way) and she had a feeling in her 66 year old body that today was the day that something special would happen on.

'Today is a day to be Ready on' thought Mrs. Johnson as she drank a firm mouthful of coffee.

Of course she had had that feeling every morning for the last six years, but Mrs. Johnson always found something special and mysterious to investigate every day. She might be retired but she still had they eyes of a soldier and the mindset of a criminal investigator, because what else could she do with her life now except for aiding society?

She was very service-minded.

She even had a little notebook in which she wrote down all suspicious things she saw. It was in fact quite big. This was done so that, in case of a murder, a terrorist attack, a theft or a runaway, she could maybe see a pattern or even pinpoint the exact moment when the crime had happened. So far she had caught a cheating husband, two cheating wives, three teenage smokers and found one thief of handbag. Mrs. Johnson considered this a success. She drank some coffee again and put her little (big) notebook in front of her and looked out her window for something to write.

At 5.47 she saw something.

'5.47 - Dr. Jenkins out with dog. Did not pick up dog dropping' wrote Mrs. Johnson.

At 5.58 she saw something else.

'5.58 - the girl Rangarajan arrived to street. Party? Boyfriend?' wrote Mrs. Johnson.

At 6.13 she saw something too.

'6.13 - Sasha Summers (lesbian) sneaked out. Relationship problems?' wrote Mrs. Johnson.

She knew Sasha from when she had been a little girl and she could not fully understand or come to terms with the fact that Sasha had now moved in with, and apparently had sexual relations, with this other Woman. Therefore she forced herself to write lesbian as well as Sasha every time the girl's name had to be written in the notebook, just to get used to the situation.

Sasha had been a quite nice little child, although she talked constantly from the moment she woke up in the morning to the moment she went to bed in the evening. She had grew up only a couple of streets away and Mrs. Johnson and her mother had sometimes met and talk about everyday activities. Mrs. Knight never failed to mention her daughters never-ending talking, so Mrs. Johnson did indeed know quite a lot about it. She had never seen anything suspicious about the girl until she, in her mid-teens, had come sneaking home one early morning and kissed a girl right underneath Mrs. Johnson's kitchen window. It was not the same girl that she had now moved in with. Mrs. Johnson could easily check the exact date and the exact time of this incident, because she stored all her notebooks in a bookshelf in her living room, neatly organized after date. But now the clock at stroke 6.28 and it was time to put on her shoes and take her usual 1 hour 6.30 walk.

The next time Mrs. Johnson sat down at her kitchen table was at lunchtime, 11.00. She ate left-over potato soup from yesterday and two sandwiches with two slices of cheese each (no ham for lunch). She had her notebook in front of her. She had filled one page since breakfast, because people seemed to be doing a lot today. She looked out the window and into the apartment on the other side. It was also a kitchen window and in it Mrs. Johnson could see a girl (or maybe a woman) sitting and drinking tea from a too big cup. She had a blanket around her shoulders and she stared unseeingly at the green leaves on the trees in the middle of the street. Every 30 seconds she took up her phone and seemed to be calling someone, but every time she put the phone down again without saying a word.

It was Sasha Knight the lesbian's girlfriend.

'Definitely relationship problems' thought Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson was a very practical woman and she barely paid any attention to her feelings. Maybe she didn't even have any feelings left.

It was therefore very surprising when she couldn't look away from the young woman, and that the woman's desperation, helplessness and loneliness seemed to fly from one kitchen to the other and build a nest in Mrs. Johnson's disciplined and practical heart.

Mrs. Johnson did not write anything in her notebook. Somehow, it felt too personal.