She woke from a strange dream. Someone was calling her name.
She lifted her head above the gunwales of the boat. Shielding her eyes from the painful glare of water and sun.
It was someone at the mooring spot. Waving and beckoning her ashore. Features blurred by prismed sunlight and distance.
She struggled to sit up, to raise herself from the uncomfortable prone position across two seats. Her world became vertiginous. Her mouth dry and brassy. Like blood.
Her brain kept knocking up against the cage of her skull. The brightness of the noon-day light pierced the back of her retinas.
She blinked against the sun. She found herself rowing, creating tiny eddies in the sky-water with the oars.
Somehow, she had steered the rowboat to the dock. The figure, in the thinness of words of his laconic language, she couldn’t quite hear clearly, nor understand was gesturing wildly.
The scenery changed. She was lying on the floor of her apartment looking through a peephole floating above her head, watching a wispy vision/version of the lake unfold. She smelt lilacs. She heard the ripple of her dipping oars.