The woman who was always already swimming

Written in Ohrid, June 2021. Typed up today.

The light came flat across the water early. I’d sit on the stone wall with my coffee and wait for it to change. The lake held the cold of the night a long time.

By the fourth morning in Ohrid I understood part of the pattern.

Every morning, same hour, she was already in the lake. An old woman, grey hair dark with water, swimming a straight line out from the shore and back. No wavering. She’d reach some point only she could measure, turn, and return. I never saw her walk down to the water. Never saw her climb out. She was simply there at that hour, and then not.

I tried watching from different spots along the promenade. A bench near the boats. The low wall by the church. I came earlier once. I came later once. Always the same result. She was in the water at the right time, gone before I could trace her exit. It reminded me of counting harbour horns in an empty street somewhere else. Someone else’s routine, already running before I arrived.

The water was clear enough to see the rocks on the bottom. Small fish moved in the shallows near the steps. I sat and watched them between her laps. She swam with her face in the water, turning her head to breathe. Then the lake was empty again and the boats began to move.

A man selling dried figs on the corner asked if I was waiting for someone. I pointed at the water. He shrugged and gave me a fig. It was warm from the sun and too sweet.

I’ll tell you the rest if I remember it.