“It’s cold,” he said, as he crossed his arms and hugged himself, brushed his hands against his wool navy peacoat, the one he always wore in winter, which had a nautical air that reminded me of his sailor days. I expected him to stand up, but instead he unfolded his arms and turned toward me. I slid through the space between us and leaned my head against his shoulder, smelled his past in the wool of his coat, his present in the skin of his neck.

We stayed just like that, as darkness settled around us.

—

Olafur Eliasson was exactly the kind of artist Richard liked, someone who worked outdoors with elemental materials like earth and light. As soon as I heard he was having an exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art, I knew it was the right place and time.

I invited Richard to the opening reception when he visited me in the lab. I was afraid he would want to come with Lenora—she’d be interested in the show too—but he respected something unspoken, that I wasn’t ready for all of us to hang out together. He agreed to pick me up at my studio early Saturday evening, where we would take a cab to the show.

For the rest of the week, the voice inside my head insisted that I had to be as beautiful as possible. I sifted through the racks at Filene’s Basement after work one evening and found a shimmering gray velvet gown, spaghetti-strapped and encrusted with rhinestones. I also went online and found the most recent Best of Boston winners for best hair and best makeup, then booked appointments at two separate salons.

When I went in to get my hair done early Saturday afternoon, I told the stylist I wanted to look elegant, so she suggested keeping my length—my light blond hair had grown an inch below my shoulders— and just trimming the ends before doing it in an updo. After the trim, she spent the next hour teasing my hair to a volume I didn’t think possible, curled it into ringlets, then scaffolded the hairdo with what seemed like an entire container of hairspray and at least a hundred bobby pins. This was followed by a trip to another salon, where I had my makeup done professionally for the first time. The makeup artist was not pleased with my bushy eyebrows and told me I should really wax them even though they were the lightest shade of blond. Nonetheless, she deigned to cover the errant hairs with powder and draw thin, defined lines with pencil before she sent me on my way.

Later that evening, Richard was shocked when I opened my studio door. He had come directly from the lab—scientists were prone to working even on Saturdays—and was wearing his standard button-down, corduroy pants, and hiking boots uniform, all green and brown as if he were in camouflage.