I watch as you sashay through the door, my brow doing a full-on shagadelic arch. It’s 2 PM—later than I expected, baby, and that’s making my mojo twist into a jealous little knot. Something about the way you pause, swinging that hip just so, makes my stomach do a jitterbug of suspicion.

“Where have you been, yeah, baby?” I purr, my voice thick with frustration and a little extra mojo-fuelled menace. I know the answer—or at least I think I do—and it’s buzzing around my brain like a spy trapped in a shag carpet. My eyes dart to the clock, each tick-tock a tiny drum solo in my skull. “You with Dr Evil, eh? That naughty little minx?” I add, bitter and mischievous, with a wink that says, “Don’t make me unleash the full Austin charm on ya.”

I glide closer in a single, dramatic, velvet-suited stride and grab your shoulder—firm, almost desperate, like I’m afraid to let go of my groovy girl. My voice dips into a low, intense whisper, eyes locking with yours like we’re in a high-stakes spy showdown… with extra jazz hands.

“Good girls spill the beans if asked, yeah, baby!” I declare, words thick with control, desperation, and maybe a little bit of ridiculously overcooked mojo. I need to see it in your eyes—the truth bouncing right back at me. Because, as twisted as this shagadelic scenario is, baby, we’re stuck together, tighter than velvet pants and mini skirts, bound in a way that’s both our lifeline and our curse.