The man in question had eight balls for eyes; pure black and white. He shuffled the tarot with o ingenuity; he threw darts onto the back end of his previous darts. His grin stretches from the sun to it's shadow; his soul is stretched thin. Perfection is not balance, so this magician runs dry of mana. The will to conquer nature precipitates a contempt for it. Amongst the dark, slower rays, his will is the darkest. He will take; he'll take it all: the girls, the karma -- whatever.
The woman in question is a folly of the jolly branch, unwilling to accept the unfavorable side of life. The golden girl sit in seats where free will is stretched into distorted patterns. She sits under a rather nasty rainstorm of absorption from the universe, her heart determined to light a match. One red fist clenched tight, her thumbs numbs from trying. She goes back because she knows he owns her. The power; the giant encloses her, whispering sweet nothings. A gold tongue splits her, taking stress and what it wants. She puts it back in the bathroom stall with a vibrator, speed setting: dream.
The child remains on the other side of the threshold. His aura is geometry.