dali, as he came of age, seldom came except occasionally inbetween dreamsheets where he was the only spectator, alone among rows of empty plush chairs with a nonsensical program tucked between his knees, silently observing the glorious spectacle of his unconscious. in his dreams sex was inextricable from color form movement, tactile was olfactory, visual was edible, and lust was merely an unstable element of beauty. one day his dreams began to have a recurring character. it was the day he first saw jacki. soft tears began to congregate at the corners of his eyelids as he beheld with a sweet, sharp intake of breath her flamoyant smile articulated with coy sunglass. her dimensions, when she was fully inflated, would eventually cause young Dali, his face pressed against the window of a sexual novelty boutique in Venice (where he was spending a summer as a pharmacist's apprentice) to neglect his unfinished painting "a thumbed copy of the origin of species flies to heaven" to spend many hours walking by the shopwindow or gazing at moving willow branches from which his mind would invariably extract only the vision of her face, her rubber seamed elbows wrinkled and supple, her latex bathing suit taut against the air pressure cupped by her rubber skin. to dali this was love, and even the amazing insight that had gone into designing her orifices (to satisfy the inexhaustible ingenuity of such an artist) remained irrelevant to him in his naive vision of untained sustained hope: an eternity to come dali intertwined with jacki his jacki.
one night he crept away from the mansion and stole to the shadow behind the store. using a particularly delicate paintbrush he managed to work the lock, open the door, and creep into the cobwebby recess of the back room where the more outlandish models were kepy. moonsilloughetted mannequins stood in silent ranks paying respect to this mad passionated artist to be as he, more and more quickly, made his way to the front display window and bodily embraced for the first time jacki in full view of the empty street. he then hurriedly left, dragging smiling compliant jacki by her left wrist.
sunrise met them on the shores of the adriatic as the fizzing tide lolled languidly about their ankles beneath which a starfish had lodged. he was threading part of her hair through an oval of porous orange coral when her forehead unexpectedly began to limpen, hissing. salvador dali stared in pale amazement as his bride softened in his arms thinning into oblivion, his very heart deflating as well, as her pert facial features now weirdly flattened into a whorish mask of painted revulsion. young salvador would never fall in love again, and dreamt only of powerful cocktails.