An adolescent boy, nude but for a spotlessly white loincloth. Great feathered wings sprout from his shoulder blades, so perfectly clean and glorious that anyone who saw them would be instantly blinded. But of course there are none who can.
He stands in the middle of Central Park, as people rush about him. His eyes are fixed on no one in particular. The one he is waiting for has not arrived yet. But she will soon, and like all the others, she will be in a hurry. His timing will have to be perfect, but he is unconcerned because it always is. He has performed his job for aeons. His job is a craft now, an art form unto itself.
He folds his wings down around himself, and for a moment he is nothing more than a column of pure, radiant, heavenly light. He is pure perfection, transcendence beyond transcendence, and when his wings part again, he is holding in his hand a crystalline key made of perfect, clear glass.
The time has come. She comes racing through the park now. He is about to make her a goddess among men.
