Picture This by Jacqueline Sheehan

possible that the scout was calling out a number to the entire murder of crows. She has two more arrows left. Come and get it. She heard odd quacking sounds from the crows, and she didn’t yet know what those meant, but she had identified the general sound of come and get it.
    Rocky had recently added one more element to the routine: changing the sequence of events slightly as an experiment. The experiment was so narcissistic that she was glad the crows couldn’t tell anyone except the other crows. She had routinely said, “Hello, crows,” when she arrived, and “Good-bye, crows,” when she left. Did they have a name for her? Surely there was a special call for humans, although she had yet to decipher it. She wanted them to know her name. It seemed fair at this point in the relationship. In fact, she might have a better shot at a relationship with crows than with, say, a man. A man like Hill, who had said he was single, if separated. And then bam, his wife returns. The crows wouldn’t ever do anything like that. Did they mate for life like mallards, swans, and voles? Maybe the most she could hope for was that after consistently feeding them, the crows would learn her name.
    Rocky had long known that food is the strongest way to reinforce an action or a sound, and that food must be solidly associated with the desired behavior to form a well-traveled route in the brain. As she put out the bread, she said, “Rocky, Rocky.” This was a good two-syllable sound for the crows to learn. Who knows? And who knows when and how she would tell Hill about seeing Julie? How would she do it? Would he call her? Would he tell her instantly when he came to her house tonight for their previously planned dinner? Would he reach for her hand, looking glum and guilty, or awkward and pained, and spill it out?
    Rocky and Bob had been married for eight years, and they had been together for a few years before that. She honestly couldn’t remember how people break up. She wanted to hate Hill, but there was nothing similar to hate percolating through her. She was filled with wanting and desire, longing for his skin and breath. She wanted to tell him about Natalie, she wanted to be wrapped in his arms while she told him about the sound of Natalie’s voice.
    E verything Rocky knew and believed said that she needed to tell Hill exactly what she’d seen and talk it out before her feelings turned into a gangrenous wound. In a fit of passive pouting, she wanted him to bring it up. The image of Hill and Julie from the night before was intruding into her thoughts, her body, and a huge glob of rejection had taken over her heart.
    As if nothing had happened, he called and left her a message: “I’m back and I can’t wait to see you. We’re on for dinner? See you after work. I’ll stop at the fish market. Let me know if you want cod or monkfish. Or do you want me to choose?”
    The terror of rejection had been as unpredictable as a lightning strike. There is no way to know how lightning will burn through the cognitive circuitry, leaving one victim with a lifelong limp, while another will never be able to smell onions again. Rocky had suddenly lost her senses, her belief in love after Bob, and her ability to say what she was thinking and feeling. Hill was going to leave her, and in the hierarchy of breakups he was going to take the high road—no phone breakup, but a face-to-face, which ranked much higher than a text message or e-mail.
    She knew which ferry he’d take and exactly how long it would take him to walk from the dock to her house. When he was within a mile of the house, Cooper stood and went to the door, looking over his shoulder at her.
    â€œI’d love to know how you do that. Is it sound or smell or canine radar?” Rocky asked the dog. “Does the man have a vibrational frequency that you can hear?”
    Hill appeared along the dirt road, swinging a white plastic