They were looking each other straight into the eyes. The anticipation of what was to come was growing. They did not touch, not yet. And while they were standing, leaning at opposite walls of the small elevator in his apartment building none of them dared to speak. They had completely entered the state of non-verbal communications. It nearly seemed they had unlearned language with all its constraints and expressions. Enough of imagery, societies own masturbation.
The young witch had been sitting on her knees with her arms raised, to preside over her ritual space. She wore a green ritual robe she bought online from a website selling magical goods, and thought it looked good on her, as it emphasized her cleavage, and made her curvy body look far more sexy, in her opinion. Just about all of her ritual goods had been purchased from one store or another, but that fact never seemed to bother her. She’d been a ‘practicing’ witch since she was nineteen, but never recognized the reason none of her spells or rituals ever seemed to work. So it was no surprise that this plea to the goddess was met with an anticlimactic lack of anything happening.