The Dalí Paradox Delusion

A Flash Fiction by Lorraine Collins

By Mariakray

“I’ll meet you by the melting clocks, I’m flying in on the red eye and I’ll come straight there, I’ll phone as soon as I leave the airport.”

The dawn light of New York cast shadows on his face as he leaned towards the computer screen; she wanted to reach into it, touch the hairs on his forearms, lay her head on his chest. Her skin tingled with desire, like being pricked all over with tiny pins.

“Only five more days, God, it seems like it’s been for ever!”

London’s late morning sun illuminated her face; he wanted to hold it in his hands and press his lips to her mouth, pull her body towards him until there was no air between them. His heart raced with desire, like he’d run a marathon.

“Time is....”

The wi-fi signal momentarily distorted their images, then the screen froze. It happened a lot. They paused, waiting for the pixels to unscramble and reassemble.

“....an illusion, yes, I know, Einstein!”

They laughed at their own cleverness; their lovers’ bubble, honed and perfected in the heat of a sweltering Manhattan summer, effervescing through the digital airwaves.

They’d met at the Museum of Modern Art, by the Dalí collection. She was making notes for her thesis on Surrealism; he was scrutinising the paintings, cocking his head sideways, looking both puzzled and intrigued. They’d gravitated towards each other, magnetic energy within an irresistible force.

“You look like an expert,” he’d said. “Can you explain what all these weird images are meant to represent?”

The explanation lasted over drinks, dinner, and the next two weeks. They were in a dreamscape of their own, every memory shared was fascinating, every life plan was invigorating. Every book read, every film seen, every subject discussed confirmed their compatibility. They framed themselves in the present perfect continuous.

Then she had to go back to England.

And for both of them time seemed to stand still.

Until now.

Now they were meeting at the Dali exhibition in London. It was immersive and interactive, the only thing missing was the actual paintings. But it seemed a good omen.

It was a grey winter’s day. She was swaddled in her quilted coat and fur boots, tissue in hand to stem her runny nose.

She saw him coming towards her.

He’s shorter than I remember; and he shuffles his feet when he walks.

He saw her coming towards him.

She’s taller than I remember; and she’s quite round shouldered.

No matter, a momentary flutter of alarm, brought on by nerves. Dismiss.

They embraced, then exchanged searching looks, desperate to see what they wanted to see. But they searched too hard, looked too long.

Those sexy crinkles around his eyes — they’re actually quite unattractive wrinkles.

Those lines around her mouth — they give her a disappointed look.

They shrank into their bodies for consolation. He rubbed his hands.

“Don’t they heat their buildings in London? I hope they’ve got good hot coffee here!”

God, that Brooklyn drawl is so loud, so out of place here. I wish he’d keep his voice down, everyone’s looking!

“Well, I did say to wear something warm!”

Jeez, she sounds like my mother!

They turned away from each other to hide their mutual disappointment.

They wandered around the exhibition for a while, trying to recapture their sense of wonder.

“Let’s put on the VR headsets” she said. ‘Let’s get inside the paintings.”

The watches ticked, time slid, ants scuttled. Rocks moved; waves crashed against the shore. Music crescendoed.

But none of it was real.

Afterwards, they sat quietly, absorbing what they had just experienced, how their senses had been tricked.

“Anyway,” she sighed, “it’s not called melting clocks, it’s called...”

“...The Persistence of Memory, yes, I know,” he interrupted. “Look, I’m hungry, didn’t eat much on the plane. Let’s go and get some lunch.”

At the French café they watched in silence as the camembert lost its shape and oozed across the plate.

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Author: Lorraine lives in London with her husband and campervan. She has had some modest placed and published success, and is delighted to have had one of her pieces nominated for Best Microfiction 2025 by the U.S. magazine Does It Have Pockets.

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