The artist and the scientist held hands at the edge of the room.
The artist, the left side, tilted back his head, soaking in the whole. The installation reflected in his eyes as he contemplated the existence of such a project. He was overwhelmed; this was art.
The scientist, the right side, spent time to examine each individual bulb. She measured the flashes and, to the best of her considerable ability, estimated the age and gender of each pulse. She felt her retinas expand and contract with each passing second and she was overwhelmed. This was science.
In the restaurant, the scientist ordered a toasted sandwich. The artist, spaghetti bolognese.
He twirled the chaos carelessly around his fork, splashing the silk tablecloth with lumpy red specks. She, wielding a scalpel, cut her meal into identical blocks, delicately placing each square into her mouth.
Over dinner, she spoke in considered consonants, analysing each string of thought before voicing her conclusions. The artist spoke in excited broad strokes, barely chewing his food between each new barrage of uneven sentences. There was an art to their relationship.
The artist hurried upstairs as soon as they returned home. The scientist smiled from the kitchen, listening to him rummage in the chaos for a fresh canvas.
Two measured spoons of coffee, 200ml of water and 20ml of skimmed milk later, she retired to the living room and continued to read through the periodical she had started at 10am that morning.
It was midnight before the scientist ventured upstairs. The artist was asleep, slumped on an old wooden dining chair in the corner of the room.
Smiling, she gently prised the brush from his multi-coloured fingers. The artist stirred but did not wake.
After placing the stalk into a bowl of muddy, brown water (red mixed with blue mixed with green), the scientist stood back to admire the artist’s endeavours.
She smiled, before lightly tracing Fibonacci’s spiral across the painting. There was a science to everything.