Then Dave whipped off his Boston Red Sox long-sleeve T-shirt.

And Rhonda whipped off her “I’m a trout’s worst nightmare” T-shirt.

And then Dave unbuttoned his Wrangler jeans and peeled them off.

And revealed some cream-colored cotton long johns.

And Rhonda peeled off her Lee jeans.

And revealed some sky blue wool long johns that her mom had gotten her for Christmas.

And Dave and Rhonda stood facing one another.

And then they laughed.

And then Dave suddenly got a little self-conscious about what he looked like. He wondered if Rhonda would think he looked okay without many clothes on. He was a little doughy and tried to hold his belly in.

But there was a little too much of it to hold in.

But Rhonda didn’t seem repulsed by it. Or him.

So he stopped worrying about what he looked like and instead looked at how beautiful Rhonda was in her long johns.

Rhonda liked how Dave was looking at her. It made her feel beautiful. And she didn’t usually feel beautiful. But on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen, she did. Because of Dave.

Rhonda looked at Dave the way he was looking at her. And Dave liked the way she was looking at him and asked, “So … do you wanna know what comes … next?”

“Yeah,” said Rhonda, nodding.

“Well, why don’t we go inside. And I’ll show you.”

“All right.” Rhonda walked past Dave and said, “Well, then why don’t you go on inside and show me what’s next!” And she opened the door and showed Dave the way.

“All right!” yelped Dave, and the lightness he had been feeling expanded inside him even more and made him feel brighter and lighter than he had ever felt, and he pushed open the door to the rest of Rhonda’s house and bolted inside.

Rhonda heard something crash.

And she heard Dave whimper.

“Light switch on the right as you enter!”

“Thanks!”

The lights in the living area and kitchen of Rhonda’s house went on.

And she looked down at the old telephone bench by the door—and at the painting Dave had given her.

And she was glad she had finally been able to decipher the image.

It was a heart.

An anatomically correct heart. That looked like little blocks of red and purple and blue and gray and black when you looked at it one way—but like a human heart when you looked at it another.

Rhonda gazed at the painting. And really couldn’t believe how good it was.

And Dave wondered why Rhonda hadn’t joined him inside yet and yelled, “Hey, Rhonda! Let’s go!”

But Rhonda didn’t move.

And after a while Dave called to her again. “Rhonda!”

And Rhonda went toward the door to go inside.

And then stopped.

And Dave came back out onto the porch and asked, “What’s up?”

“Um…” Rhonda went to the old telephone bench and picked up the painting and stared at it—and seemed unsettled.