The Woman and The Lake

There is a place. She drives to every winter. Smoking cigarettes, listening to music, white silk dress flowing in through the open roofed car. A book always in her purse. Arriving at the Lake she drops her things on the rocky surface, slowly peeling the strap off each shoulder and submerges herself in the water. She does the same thing every day through the winter. The first sign of snow you will see her, always with fresh strawberries and homemade lemonade. A book. A packet of cigarettes. Always the same music.

The inhabitants of the sprawling Lake house’s watch her- questioning. Trying themselves to understand the -2 degree swimming pool she floats around in, while all their fires have wood being burned to embers. She is an outsider, she doesn’t live here. Yet every winter here at the Lake, is hers. She comes only then- where most sane people in their wooden coves, hidden under patterned blankets and throws, keep clear of the freezing waters. Why does she drive here? To the Lake of all places. In -10 degree weather, roof down, never a goosebump on her skin.

She enters the Lodge, positioned uphill with a view of the Lake. Still wearing a silk slip, cheeks rosy with winters kiss. Sliding into a seat she doesn’t seem to notice everyone looking. Her wet blonde hair dancing down her back, never wetting the silk. A bartender comes over, polite and tall, familiar. She orders a whiskey and a cup of ice.

Pulling out her small purse and placing it on the table she takes out its contents. Methodical, slow. First, a book. The cover of which has long since rubbed off. A small jar of strawberries. A packet of cigarettes. Lastly, a small glass cylinder of lemonade.

The bartender comes back with her drink and cup of ice, placing an ash tray on the table. She nods politely saying thank you. Unscrewing the tin lid of the lemonade she pours it into the whiskey keeping a centimetre from the top. She takes a spoon out of the cutlery bin and pulls all of the ice out of the whiskey, placing it in the ice glass to the brim. She takes three strawberries from the jar and plonks them in, one by one. Swirling it once with the spoon she puts it to the side and opens her book.

Her drink slowly goes down, she chews on the ice chips as people pour in and out. She can smell a chicken roasting, wafting out from the kitchen, mixing in with her cigarette smoke. The not so fresh smell of mussels that are still on the menu despite the time of year. A citrus fruit cake being baked in an oven. All scents that remind her of what was. Could it have turned out another way? Could she have lived her happily ever after?

Soon there is no one making noise. No cutlery scraping porcelain plates, no small talk from couples who have been married so long they are reduced to menial talk. The creak of the front door has ceased.

The bartender comes over, ‘I’m sorry Miss but we are closing.’ She politely nods, placing her things back in her purse in the reverse order. ‘Can I ask what you are reading?’ He continues.

‘My memoir’ she replies with a smile.

She is too beautifully ordinary to not be real he thinks to himself. ‘I’m sorry, you look in your twenties Miss?’

‘You want to know a secret?’ She says in a whisper.

‘I swim in the Lake because it is the closest to death I can get in a controlled environment.’ He pauses, trying to process what she has said.

‘Do you wish to die, Miss?’ He feels a sense of unease, he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

‘No I do not. But I am dying. I have an illness there is no cure or remedy or special tonic for.’ She smiles, not quite reaching her eyes. ‘I want to know what is coming. The Lake brings me closer to that. It is a comfort. I want to know that I have lived my fullest before my departure. I have come here for years under the guise of abnormality and routine. You all know me here, but you do not know my name. No one here has ever asked me my name. Where I am from. If I am married, divorced, widowed… I like it that way. You all have a version of myself in your heads you’ve created from the small nothings I do. I enjoy that.’ She continues, ‘Death comes for us all, it is inevitable. Mine a little closer than most. A ghost that follows you around, more a feeling- a presence. It is not supposed to be something to be feared. It is a celebration of a life well done.’

‘You will know who I am once I am gone. You have been kind to me over the years, I hope this’- she taps the book- ‘Won’t change your fantasy of me, up here’- she points a finger to her head.

He smiles at her. ‘You will be perfectly preserved in my memory as you are right now.’ She seems pleased by what he has said, and gracefully leaves through the oak doors.

The next morning the sun was shining, ice beginning to melt off of the Alpine trees. She had left in the cold of the night, before the heat flowed in with the sun.