Pygmalion

The artist is always at the mercy of his muse.

Content warning: it’s horrible.

Rome, 1872.

“It is very beautiful,” remarked the girl. Phillipe stood back and allowed her to admire it. His heart thudded in his chest as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “What is her name?” she asked. 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Venus?” 

“She could be,” he mused. “But she is not finished yet.” 

“Oh. I suppose she is not, no.” T…