Shelly sits back behind the table of lit candles, all the ash from the paper she had burned with his name scribbled on it. Not just any name, but the name of her boss who was involved with that petite, “nothing of a girl.” They called her his wife, but not for long.
Shelly was a “witch” and had earned that title long ago. When she was younger, she spent her days with teens who practiced witchcraft in the cemetery rather than going to the local mall. She wore black make-up, black clothes, and mini skirts with fishnet stockings, daily, regardless of the weather.
Later, she traded her short skirts for black dresses, long stockings and proudly displayed choker necklaces, onyx rings, and bracelets, the jewelry, made from the delicate hands of her boss, Luke. When she sees him working his magic, it reminds her of the days before with that boy. The boy who worked with metal in his Dad’s garage. The one who created the large metal moon for her bedroom wall and a dagger to ward off spirits in the cemetery, the boy who accidentally slipped down a cliff in the thick lightning storm, never to return.
Now, she mixes the ingredients for the love spell: violet, hawthorn, pearl dust, and honey-infused rose buds. She blends it together, shaking it two to four times before she lets it sit in that dark, cool space for weeks.
When that Tuesday comes, the very day of the super moon, she moves carefully with the potion inside the pocket of her black vest. She walks with ease through the jewelry store without blinking before she drops a dose into Luke’s afternoon coffee.
She waits, the witch waits-waits-waits for him to slip, stumble, fall.
Oh, yes, this man will fall.