Honestly they have you so stuck your best girl there, tense-kneed, and moistening while her (mouth slightly open) eyes sparkle over the radiant assortment. Some salesman, perhaps an apparition, babbling about scintillation while you wash in and out of consciousness between questions of your hand-holding trip to the ice cream parlor and your annual salary. Mind fluttering between the sexual nature of floral skirts lightly brushing hard glass display cases, and the romance of dimly lit mannequins twittering on about the importance of symmetry the anesthetic of her hand gripping your side, the impossible clarity of the luminescent glass case (a certain bend at the lower back). With her eyes in flames while shimmering baubles dance in and out of existence your dreaming hand floats an expensive pen across the face of a check.