The planet Jupiter is free. No one knows what nests in her clouds or what sounds her storms carry. I had been reading about her because of her place in the sky at the moment, almost touchable. Now, I notice her everywhere, not just in the sky but in the red head of a house finch. In the way water swirls in a glass. Even the ground below my feet reminds me of her, for on Jupiter, there is no ground at all. 

I had crossed the city that day on a familiar route to meet him. Arriving early, I try to calm my nerves by focusing on the way the evening light falls across the museum windows. Then he is there. We smile and greet each other. I mess with my hair and he moves his hands in and out of his pockets before placing a hand on my back, directing me through the halls. 

We are viewing a gallery of Georgia O’Keeffe’s photography. In the dimness, I see the outline of the shapes she is known for. Curved flower petals. Landscapes with harsh angles. Skies. Deeper in the gallery, I picture myself at O’Keeffe’s age in many of her portraits. Against the desert, my hair torn back in a strict bun, contrasted by a black skirt that catches the wind. I see myself picking out how the sun moves shadows across the adobe wall. I wonder how O’Keefe might photograph Jupiter if she had been able to observe it like she did canyons and flowers. I wonder how I would. 

We comment on the pieces we like. We speak of life and what we will do next. We talk about how time feels as it passes and with a softness he turns and says he is a widower. “Life is not forever,” he says simply. I know this to be true. We lock eyes but he quickly turns away, he suggests we visit the upstairs galleries. 

The halls are still. They feel like empty roads running through forests, and we are alone on them. “Jupiter is the closest it will be to the Earth in our lifetime,” I say. He tells me he loves astronomy but didn’t know Jupiter was nearby. I turn to tell him I look for Jupiter every night and will do so until it fades away from the Earth, but then I don’t.

We enter a gallery displaying the evolution of the office chair. I think of the years my parents and grandparents were born and picture them sitting on wooden chairs, upholstered chairs, and plastic chairs. I feel less as if I am on a forest road and more like I am in a different time. He shifts from foot to foot and reaches to touch me. He runs through a list of all of the countries he’s visited. I have only been out of the country once, to Mexico. 

We turn around, walking back the way we came. I ask him about his family and he asks me about mine. I let it slip out that I have also lost someone, my sister. Three years it’s been, I say. He remarks on the recency and I feel it in my throat. We are at the height of the stairs now, the elevator brushes by with its sounds, and people pulse through the halls. His eyes are tall in this moment. The way he watches my response and makes 

comments is tall too. He tells me how lonely it is, grief, and I agree. He tells me how his family doesn’t understand and I tell him how my friends don’t. Later he kisses me deeply and I feel nothing. 

That night I dream about it all and I have dreamt of it over and over again. Dream upon dream. We are walking through the museum, it has every type of light. Morning light, evening light, fluorescent light, soft light for the oil paintings, almost darkness for O’Keeffe. I die too. I am in the hospital and then I die. And then I am back at the 

height of the stairs. And then I die again. And he dies. I see myself in the third person. I see my reflection–on floors and walls. I see myself–old and young. I see my face. I see my eyes closed. I see my neck stretched upward. I see my feet bare on the museum floor. I see Jupiter again.