Inspirati Scientia

Authors: NewOldGuy77 and JuanaSalsa

NOTE: This tale was inspired by JuanaSalsa, a STEM PhD scientist (when she's not writing); due to her many contributions during the writing of it, she deserves full credit as co-author.

All scientists in the story are 18+. Since I revise right up until submission, any errors are mine alone.

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PART 1: She Blinded Me With Science

It's poetry in motion, now she's making love to me

The spheres are in commotion, the elements in harmony

She blinded me WITH SCIENCE!

- Thomas Dolby

~~~~~~~~~~

Her full name was Doctor Rachel Carson Berrigan, PhD. Rachel had been recruited to ChemMolecular's Albuquerque, New Mexico research lab from Produits Chimiques, a French-based competitor; she'd been working in their Santa Fe facility about 50 miles away on Interstate I-25. From a scientific standpoint, having this renowned materials scientist working for ChemMolecular was quite the feather in my company's cap.

Speaking as both a materials scientist and a bachelor, I have to say that in addition to finding Dr. Berrigan brilliant, I also found her attractive as hell.

I'm Patrick Dawson, Senior Materials Research Scientist at ChemMolecular with a PhD in Chemical Engineering from MIT. I'm 6'2" and slim, with brown hair, and hazel eyes. I have an older brother, Edward, a chemical warfare researcher who works for the Department of Defense at the Pentagon. I'm a nice package, according to my gay friends, anyway. (They tell me it's a shame I'm straight.) The downside is, I'm shy as hell.

Despite my shyness, I'm no stranger to relationships. While attending MIT I had a girlfriend, so no, I'm not a virgin. Her name was Tiffany Grimes, and she was an electrical engineering major. Our brief relationship ended because I was not the party animal Tiffany's Kappa Alpha Theta sorority sisters wanted me to be.

They kept telling Tiffany I was boring and dull, enough so that she finally dumped me. Not going to lie, it hurt like hell; I swore off tall, blonde electrical engineers after that. Those stuck-up BSEE bitches could go fuck themselves with a 16-channel oscilloscope!

Now Dr. Berrigan, she was quite the opposite. Barely 5' in her sensible burgundy-colored Troentorp clogs, she was physically far removed from the witches in the Kappa Alpha Theta coven. It was hard to tell under her lab coat, but I guessed she was at least a size 16. I should point out that while standard-sized lab coats would be perfect for mean sorority girls, they fit her yummy body poorly. Her coat had been somewhat tailored, in that it had been hemmed at the bottom to keep it from dragging on the floor; she also wore the sleeves rolled up to keep her hands uncovered. I did admire the way her boobs strained the buttons down the front, but sadly my prayers for a wardrobe malfunction went unanswered.

I also admired how she was physically substantial, with long, naturally curly brown hair tied back in a ponytail to keep it out of her face. She wore no makeup, but her skin was a nice alabaster tone; with those big brown eyes beneath her protective goggles, freckled nose and naturally pouty lips, there was nothing phony about her. I liked that too! As a matter of fact, I liked almost everything about her, enough to the point where over time, I began to picture us together.

One July day when the air-conditioning broke, Dr. Berrigan took off her lab coat and I finally saw her full figure. Had to be at least 40DD in the bust, a waist I estimated between 37" and 39" (trust me, I'm a pretty good estimator) with a nice muffin-top-tummy that hung over the belt of her jeans, the cherry on top being a glorious ass that had to be at least 45" squeezed into those same jeans. Thanking whatever gremlins had sabotaged the HVAC unit, I was now in heaven.

My reaction? Let me put it this way: if I was playing the 'never have I ever' game and someone asked, "Ever masturbated while sweating in an overheated men's room at work as you fantasized about fucking your co-worker?" then I'd have to take a drink. A big one.

You could describe me as being smitten, going so far as to create a password protected spreadsheet listing potential names of our children and what our household budget would look like. Although I never gave her any inkling of it while working beside her in the lab, Dr. Berrigan had unknowingly become my hobby.

For all Dr. Berrigan's acclaim, because of her neutral mannerisms, my fellow materials scientists in the research lab seldom spoke to her, clandestinely referred to her as 'Spock' between themselves. The meaner female staff members also took shots at her weight, referring to her by the SI Unit slur 'Big Newton' in quiet breakroom conversations. (If these women weren't former Kappa Alpha Theta sorority sisters, they surely acted like it.) I didn't approve of, nor partake in, this behavior. If anything between Dr. Berrigan and I took root, I knew I could no longer remain silent.

The weeks wore on in the lab for nearly a year, with me stealing occasional admiring glimpses at Dr. Berrigan, but too achingly shy to make a move. That is, until the fateful day when during a lunchroom conversation, I mentioned the famous exposé Silent Spring, which revealed the devastating effects of Dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, aka DDT.

Four of my coworkers and I were seated around our usual table, while Dr. Berrigan was sitting by herself at the next table over as per usual. She was eating the same lunch as always - a Japanese bento box containing vegetarian stuff like shiitake yakitori, edamame, a potato or pasta salad, and a small bit of fruit - and the same beverage - a 20 ounce bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper - every single day, never varying.

Once I thought about it, I realized Dr. Berrigan's lunch was actually a window to her personality. A bento box uses separators to keep each food item apart, so the foods don't mix - compartmentalized, neat and precise. That's how I perceived her as well, one of the many things that attracted me to her.

Everyone else thought Dr. Berrigan was standoffish. If there was a seat available at a larger table where a group was sitting, she never joined it. As for me, being no stranger to shyness I sensed she wanted to be with people, but was just unsure to go about it. If she was standoffish, her chosen table would have been in an isolated corner of the huge cafeteria, not next to the one where we usually congregated. It was as if she wanted to be part of the group, but without being a full participant.

The day I mentioned the book Silent Spring, as the table discussion revolved around what led to the insecticide DDT being banned, we suddenly heard Dr. Berrigan speak up.

"I was named after the environmentalist Rachel Carson," she offered.

Everyone shut up at once. Hearing Rachel actually speak about something non-work related NEVER happened! While everyone else on the team silently exchanging glances with expressions that declared, "What the fuck?!?!", I took the opportunity to stand up and approach her. My chance had come at LAST!

"That's really something, she was an incredible woman," I responded, then gestured at the empty seat across from her. "May I sit with you?"

Now it was Dr. Berrigan's turn to have a "What the fuck?" moment. All the months we'd worked in the lab, we'd only exchanged a word or two, usually conversations related to experiments and product development. Hesitantly, she replied, "Sure, I guess so...if you really want to." Those nine words were enough to change things forever. Going forward, at lunch I always sat with Dr. Berrigan -- Rachel -- now.

Of course, Dr. Berrigan had no clue that during that time we worked together I'd become obsessed with her. My one-sided crush on her by now could be measured on the Godzilla scale, capable of levelling downtown Tokyo. Calling it 'love' wasn't exactly accurate because love is typically a mutual attraction, but I was hopeful once Rachel got to know me it might become mutual.

The day after I first sat with Rachel at lunch, I bribed a buddy in the Human Resource Department with a bottle of 15-year-old Glenmorangie single-malt scotch to do me a favor and look up some confidential background info on the good Doctor. Turns out she was 27, ten years younger than me. A PhD from the University of Wisconsin, her parents in Indiana were her emergency contacts and the beneficiaries on her life insurance, so no husband or boyfriend. The whole time we'd worked together, she'd had never taken a vacation or sick day, so her Paid Time Off accrual was maxed out. Perfect!

The Glenmorangie was $90 well-spent. Emboldened by this information, I began my campaign to make Doctor Rachel Carson Berrigan my girlfriend.

I decided to start off slowly, so as not to make Rachel uncomfortable. I tried subtle things to let her know I was interested. Sometimes while going over test results in the lab, I'd stand close enough to her side so that our arms grazed. If we happened to be walking together, I was quick to open doors for her, reminding her to wear a coat if walking between ChemMolecular buildings so she wouldn't get too cold. (Believe it or not, despite Albuquerque being in a Southwestern state, the winters months can be quite cold!) At lunch, I'd ask her about books or movies she liked, and whatever she was into, so was I!

Then I got so bold as to ask which museum she liked better, the National Museum of Nuclear Science & History or the New Mexico Museum of Natural History and Science. When she answered the National Museum of Nuclear Science it was the opening I'd been waiting for, and I blurted out, "Me too! We should go together sometime!"

A warm smile crossed her typically taciturn face, and she said, "OK, how about Saturday?"

Progress!

~~~~~~~~~~

I picked Rachel up at 9:00am Saturday, and we were off. Coincidentally, we were both dressed in jeans and sweatshirts; my sweatshirt was red and grey, with the MIT mascot Tim the Beaver on it. Hers was a cardinal red one from the University of Wisconsin, with the Badger mascot on it. (I was in awe of the way her chest filled her sweatshirt out, the word 'Wisconsin' stretching out like 'W I S C O N S I N'.) I was delighted how on only our first 'date' we already in synch fashion-wise!

Our day at the National Museum of Nuclear Science went well. My favorite part was the Heritage Park Outdoor Exhibit, where we examined planes, rockets, missiles, cannons, and the conning tower of a nuclear submarine. Her favorite part was the Nuclear Medicine exhibit, which showed the history of nuclear medicine and how it contributed to the advancement of medical technology. It was already 4:30pm by the time we got done there, so I asked her to dinner.

Since I knew Rachel liked Japanese food, I suggested a new place, Ginsu Ninja. It was one of those places where you sit around a huge teppanyaki cooking table while your meals are theatrically prepared by a knife-wielding, joke-telling, shrimp-flipping chef. It seemed the meal was a success since my date ate with gusto; judging by how much she laughed at the chef's jokes, I think she had a good time.

When I dropped her off at the end of the evening, I was pleasantly surprised that she took me in her arms and gave me a warm hug. Not as much as I was hoping for, but still, this was encouraging!

"This was a fun day, Patrick, thank you," she murmured.

"I thought so too, Rachel. I'm glad you had a good time." As cliché as it sounds, I looked into her eyes and found myself lost in them for a moment, then blurted out, "Actually, I have a confession."

She raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "You do?" It was now time to up my game a little. Merely implying something and hoping she'd catch my meaning wouldn't work with Rachel. Given the way her mind worked, I had to be direct.

"Yes, in the time we've been working together, I've come to admire you a great deal. You're a brilliant scientist, of course, but I've also come to appreciate your beauty. Frankly, Rachel, I find you stunning, and, well... I want to go out with you a lot more. There's a ton of things to do in the area, but what's important to me is, I want to do them with you."

I became silent, giving her time to process what I'd just said. Her expression could be described as somewhere between surprised and dumbstruck; I was certain she hadn't seen this coming.

After a minute, she said softly, "So you're telling me that... you... want to be more than my lab colleague?" The dazed look on her face had morphed into one of incredulity.

My hope rising, I responded, "That is exactly what I want. I apologize for springing this on you, Rachel, but after all this time working beside you, I can't hold my feelings in any longer. At the risk of lapsing into dramatic hyperbole, you are the Dulcinea to my Don Quixote. I've admired you too long for my admiration to continue unrequited."

Taking her face in my hands, I once again gazed into those lovely eyes. "I don't mean to pressure you, so take as much time as you need, but I would like to know at some point if you could find a place for me in your heart like you have in mine."

Bending down, I pressed my lips to hers with all the passion and sincerity I could muster; having tossed my emotional javelin, I turned and walked to my car. As I got in, I saw Rachel still standing by her door, staring at me, bathed in the lights from her front porch.

Given how fast her brain worked, I expected I'd have her response in a few days. If her answer was 'yes', I'd be emotionally orbiting in Earth's exosphere; if it was 'no', my feelings would be buried somewhere in the asthenosphere, deep beneath the Earth's surface.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Rachel lived in a small rental house, I owned my 3,000 square foot house on the periphery of Albuquerque; sitting in my backyard, there was nothing to see but desert. Built in 1901, it was a two-story 4-bedroom, 3.5 bath with a long driveway to the street and a private courtyard at the entrance.

Inside there was a great room for entertainment purposes, a huge fireplace on one end and a custom kitchen with granite counter tops and large island on the other, plus a pass-through from the kitchen to a formal dining room. All floors were natural hardwood; two guest rooms on the lower floor, with an unattached bathroom. One of the guest rooms was a bedroom, the other I'd converted to an office/hobby room.

The second floor held the other guest bedroom and main bedroom, both of which had open-beamed ceilings and ensuite full baths. On the face of it, I will admit that a single guy living on his own in a house as big as mine might sound crazy, but I had dreams when I bought it, dreams of a family filling it with laughter. Realizing I'd gotten an emotional head start on my relationship with Rachel, I had not yet shared that with her. Again, I knew couldn't rush things, so I'd do it only when the time was right.

However, none of my plans would amount to a hill of beans if the woman of my dreams decided I wasn't worthy. My hopes were now balanced on a knife edge, and I silently prayed that I would get Rachel's answer sometime next week so I could carry on with life, one way or another.

As it happened, instead of a few days, it only took Rachel a few hours; Sunday morning I was awakened by a knock on my door. Calling out "Just a minute!" I pulled on a t-shirt, some cargo shorts, and slipped my feet into fuzzy slippers before answering the door.

To my delight, it was Rachel. Her hair was up in a business-like bun, but no lab coat or safety goggles today, just a fine looking-woman in tight jeans, held up by a leather belt with a silver and turquoise-accented buckle. Her usual sweatshirt was replaced by a red and black cowboy-style plaid shirt with pearl snap buttons that hugged her curves, (with slight gaping between buttons courtesy of her ample bosom) and a pair of stylish ankle-high Tony Lama boots instead of her normal lab flats. She looked so good, I could barely speak. A typical woman would have thought I was having a seizure or something, but Rachel's attention still seemed to be focused on my house before turning back to me.

Direct as always, she wasted no time in getting to the point, without so much as a greeting. "Patrick, did you really mean what you said, about wanting us being a couple?" she demanded, "Were you serious, or was it just a prank to get everyone at work laughing at me?"

I would have kissed her, but I hadn't even brushed my teeth yet so my morning breath would have probably knocked her unconscious. Instead, I replied, "Was I serious? Yes, Rachel! Certainly by now you've noticed I'm not someone who indulges in pranks." A look of relief crossed her face, a positive sign at least.

I continued reassuring her, "In the months we've worked together, have you ever known me as a jokester?" She shook her head no. I gestured towards my kitchen area. "Very well then. I would love to have a more detailed discussion of the matter, but I need to do my morning wash-up first. Help yourself to some orange juice while I finish cleaning up, and I'll join you."

Initially feeling jubilant as I shaved my face and brushed my teeth, I became more sober as I realized exactly what had -- and, more importantly had not - been said. Rachel had asked me if I was serious and seemed pleased when I confirmed it, but made no mention of her feelings on the matter. Once washed and clean-shaven, I quickly put on some jeans and my trusty red and grey MIT sweatshirt, then went back into the kitchen.

Rachel was seated at the island, looking just as good as when I'd left her. Foregoing my offer of orange juice, she was instead scrolling through her smartphone while she waited. Pulling up a barstool, I sat next to her. Since the direct approach was always best with Rachel I cleared my throat, and asked her straight up, "So, what's your decision?"

Rachel put her phone away and looked me straight in the eyes, but instead of answering, asked me another question. "You know I'm fat, right?"

I chuckled. There were several euphemistic ways she could be referred to, such as zaftig, thick, hefty, chubby, or plus-sized; however, if Rachel wanted to characterize herself that way, far be it from me to pander to her and try to sugar-coat the situation.

I simply nodded and said, "I happen to like fat women."

Then she hit me with, "You know a lot of people think I'm weird, right?"

I smiled and shook my head, simply saying, "I happen to love weird women." Then I thought about it, and didn't like how it made me sound like I had a bunch of women I was playing. "Let me correct that statement. I happen to love ONE weird woman." Better.

Her vetting wasn't complete yet. "I can be wild and unconventional, and often strong-willed," she warned, "and a lot of men are intimidated by my intelligence. They find me off-putting."

I'd had enough. "Look, Rachel, I like fat women, weird women, wild women, unconventional women, and strong women," I told her, my tone firm, "and you happen to check every box for me. This is not news, I already told you how I feel last night. I'm all in on you! Enough with the interrogation!"

My voice may have raised a bit, as I was getting frustrated. I snapped, "I busted my ass for weeks just to get your damned attention, isn't that proof enough? Now you need to answer MY question, be straight with me like I've been with you: Do you want me as your boyfriend, or am I not good enough?"

She responded quietly, "Of course you're good enough, that's a given. I'm sorry for acting like I'm unsure. The guy I'd been dating for two years when I lived in Santa Fe, Trevor Nichols, ghosted me not long after I started working with ChemMolecular. It really hurt me, and I've struggled with self-confidence since then. I like you a lot, Patrick, I just have a lot of doubts and fears."