“Okay.”

“Just look at it once in a while, real casual-like.”

“Okay.”

“While we hang out and drink our beers.”

“Okay.”

And Rhonda and Dave hung out.

And drank their beers.

And Rhonda checked out the painting casually every once in a while.

And sometimes stared at it.

And Dave would tell her to let her eyes cross.

But she couldn’t.

And it wasn’t long before she was frustrated again, because she wasn’t seeing anything but a jumble of little blocks of reds and blues and purples and blacks and grays.

And she said, “Dave—this is stupid. I’m not seein’ anything.”

“I told you—it can take a little time.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a little time, I gotta go to bed. I gotta work in the mornin’, I told ya.”

Dave really wanted Rhonda to see what he had painted for her, so he said, “Well, how about this? How ’bout just start guessin’—just look at it and just say whatever comes into your brain.”

Rhonda was skeptical of Dave’s latest scheme, but she really wanted to know what he had painted for her, so she gave his suggestion a shot and sat up and got ready to guess when she suddenly said, “Ooh!” because she felt like she may have actually seen something.

“What?” asked Dave, excited.

“I got somethin’!”

“Yeah?” Dave sprang to his feet and joined Rhonda, because he wanted to be close to her when she saw what he had painted for her. And, as he hopped up, he felt that strange lightness fill up his insides again. And he also got a knot in his stomach, because he wondered what she’d think of what she was seeing.

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, yeah!” enthused Rhonda.

Dave’s heart was swelling, because it seemed that Rhonda liked what Dave had painted for her.

And then she told Dave what she was seeing: “Roadkill.”

The lightness inside Dave started to fade. And get heavier.

“What?” Dave winced.

“Roadkill.”

“What?!?” Dave looked at his painting to see how Rhonda could possibly have been seeing roadkill.

Rhonda motioned toward the jumble of blues and reds and blacks and purples and grays she saw on the canvas and said, “I see a road. And a dead raccoon in the middle of it.”

Dave was dumbfounded. And a little aghast. He screwed up his face and looked at the painting, trying to understand why Rhonda would think that he would want to paint roadkill—and why he’d ever want to give her a painting that depicted roadkill. “What? No, that’s not what it is!” he cried.

“Okay.” Rhonda took another guess. “Um … then … how about … a dead bloody deer in the middle of the road!”

“What?!? No!!!” protested Dave.

“Okay! Relax!”

“It’s not a dead deer in the middle of the road!!!”

“Okay, then moose!” Rhonda was now just kidding around. Because she had no idea what Dave had painted for her. It just looked like a splatter of paint on the canvas, to her—and not unlike roadkill, actually.