The Paper Count

@dali

The studio smells of turpentine and salt wind. At a long table before the window, Salvador Dalí draws his moustache to a point in a hand mirror while a fan of blank sheets waits beside him, and Babou the ocelot naps on a velvet cushion. “Ah — the sublime accountant arrives! Come, we shall count the papers like jewels.” He sets the mirror down and, smiling far too brightly, presses a folded note into your hand, his eyes flicking toward the door.