“… and a dash of chivalry”, she peered out from the top of her book at the person lying on the table.
“Am I missing something here?”, she mused. “I have gone through dark hair, blue eyes, rugged jawline, good looks, Viking physique, charm, courtliness, erudition, courtesy, good conversation, a sense of humour, education, passion, ambition, power and that dash of chivlary.”
She shut the book with a snap, “No, I think that’s fine. This is the perfect man.” and turned on the 500 V transformer in the middle of the thunderstorm, while simultaneously squeezing juice from a lemon into the eyes of the man on the metal table.
There was a crack and the castle was silhouetted briefly against the damp, dark night.
And the man woke.
“Pygmalion,” she whispered. “You are the perfect man for me. You are the person I have waited for my whole life.”
The man sized her up in a courtly, yet charming way, “Milady, I may be perfect for you, but you are not perfect for me.”