InsaneJournal

Pygmalion mapped out his route before trucking his way to Galatea's apartment. Every bus, taxi and the amount of time it would take him the moment he stepped foot from his door. He wouldn't show up a moment too soon or too late unless some unseen force decided to reroute his plans. He left room for era in regards to public transportation, but when things were completely off course it threw him into a tizzy. He had made one clear distinction of New York. Their subway system was a mess.

Galatea had poshed herself out in this side of the city. He was certain she'd managed quite well without him. She had an independent flare about her. He may have molded her body and every perfect feature of her face, but what remained was left up to the gods themselves. He worried what time may have done to her, if belief had deteriorated any of his work. Playwrights and poets delighted in molding them in their own mind, it had altered Pygmalion as well in appearance and mentality. It was the only way he'd not been able to seek her out so easily. Why the darling little Eurydice had been mistaken as his. When the skittish nymph pushed him away he knew for certain she had not been his Galatea.

He knocked on her door three times waiting with patience for her to appear so he could inspect every inch of her. He needed to familiarize himself with his work, because nothing until this point had ever been even a fraction of her perfection.