You are at home alone when there is a knock at the door. You open the door and Tyra, your friend of five years, barges past you, striding confidently into your living room on long, sun-kissed legs, rippling with hard, potent muscle.

As you scurry after her, she turns to face you, her blonde hair flicking lightly over her shoulder, a condescending smile spreads across her beauteous features. “Oh darling, I simply adore what you’ve managed to do with this… little place.” She flicks her fingers as though brushing off dust.

You begin to object, but she cuts you short with an exigent air of authority. “Spring water… if you have it,” she says, her voice a velvet purr as she perches her athletic form on the edge of your favorite armchair.