Morning Run

The bar's lighting gently reflected off the polished wood of the counter. Soft lamps hung from thin wires, casting warm glimmers onto the tiled floor. Behind the counter, a bartender — about twenty-five, in a white shirt rolled up to his elbows — was busying himself with a forced, almost insincere smile.

The usual bar ambiance was suddenly disrupted by the slamming of the door. Enter Lauren — or rather, she was now Lauren. Just a few hours ago, her name had been Mark, and damn it, all he did was go for a jog. Now her hips swayed annoyingly, tightly encased in leggings that, this morning, had felt like regular workout gear but now seemed like magnets for wandering eyes. Her large chest pressed against her ribcage and ached with every step, despite the sports bra that was both constrictive and chafing.

"Are they seriously staring at my ass? I don’t care. Or do I? No, I don’t care!" she fumed internally, furious at her every movement, noticing where the bar patrons’ eyes drifted. "You look so cute," they’d told her at home when she came in, hysterical about her sudden transformation into a woman. Her family had seemed absolutely convinced she’d always been Lauren. Cute. What’s cute about feeling like a walking target for strangers’ gazes?

 — A beer. A pint of pale ale! — she snapped, trying to sound firm, though she heard herself come off softer than intended. She sharply tried to sit on a high barstool after reaching the counter. Her chest bounced slightly with the motion, making her grit her teeth and decide it was better to stand. Despite it being morning, and despite never drinking at this hour before, she desperately needed that pint. Otherwise, she might just explode from all this madness.

The bartender gave her a condescending look, like she was some high schooler trying to act older. Lauren felt her face flush with heat. "Why is he looking at me like that? He’s totally checking me out. Ugh, it’s disgusting!"

 — Miss, may I see your ID? — he asked, casually nodding toward the "21+" sign.

Lauren clenched her fists, feeling the unfamiliar sharpness of her nails — long and foreign, though just this morning, they hadn’t existed. Her face burned, this time not from embarrassment but from sheer rage.

 — ID? — she repeated, her voice cracking slightly higher than expected. — Seriously? You think I’m... a teenager? I’m 27, for fuck’s sake!

The bartender, maintaining his professional indifference, gave a slight shrug.

 — Rules are rules, miss. Without ID, I can’t serve you alcohol.

Lauren took a deep breath, which only made things worse — her chest reminded her of its presence, straining against the already uncomfortable bra. She wanted to scream.

 — What exactly makes me look like a kid to you? — she snapped, leaning on the counter, fully aware of how her hips and rear moved in a way that immediately drew the attention of a couple of guys in the corner. — Do you even have eyes? Look at this ass! Does this look like a kid’s ass to you?

The bartender blinked, his neutral expression shifting to mild confusion.

 — Uh… I… — he started, but Lauren, realizing what she’d just blurted out, felt a wave of mortified heat rush over her.

 — Oh, God, — she muttered, covering her face with her hands. "What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I even say that?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two men at a nearby table barely stifling their laughter as they exchanged glances. One leaned over to whisper something to the other, and they both chuckled over their beers.

"Those assholes!"

 — Oh, you think it’s funny?! — she barked, spinning around so sharply that a glass of lemonade perched on the edge of the counter nearly tipped over. Her rear bumped the bar, and she felt the movement in every muscle, which only fueled her anger. — Fucking ass! — she blurted, slamming her fist onto the counter, wincing as her knuckles protested. This was beyond humiliating. — You think I enjoy this? Think I put all this on just to entertain you jerks?!

The guys at the table instantly stopped laughing, their smirks fading into a hint of unease. One of them muttered something about her being "crazy" and focused intently on his beer. The bartender, still holding a glass he was polishing, leaned in slightly, his voice now tinged with genuine concern.

 — Miss, — he began cautiously, — I’m not sure what kind of day you’re having, but maybe you should just have a lemonade instead.

 — Lemonade?! — Lauren scoffed, her chest jiggling unpleasantly with the force of her tone. She quickly crossed her arms over it, but the move only drew more attention to her figure. — Are you kidding me? I said I want a beer! B-E-E-R! And I’m not "Miss" to you!

The bartender paused for a moment, his gaze dropping briefly to the ring on her left hand. His eyebrows lifted slightly, a flicker of puzzlement crossing his face before he quickly composed himself.

 — My apologies, Mrs. — he corrected, emphasizing the change in address.

Lauren froze, slowly turning her head to stare at him, bewildered.

 — Mrs.? — she echoed, frowning. — Why the hell would you call me that?

The bartender gestured to her left hand. Following his gaze, Lauren noticed for the first time the ring glinting on her ring finger. It felt so natural there that she hadn’t even realized it was pressing against her skin until she saw it.

 — What the fuck is this?! — she blurted, raising her hand and glaring at the ring as though it might explain itself. But it didn’t.

The bartender furrowed his brow, looking at her with cautious curiosity.

 — I’m sorry. I just assumed… — he began carefully. — You’re wearing a ring. I thought you were married.

 — Married? — Lauren’s heart sank. "This has to be a mistake. I’m not married... I’m definitely not married!"

 — Married? — she repeated hoarsely, as if testing how the word sounded aloud. Then she shook her head violently. — No, there’s been a mistake. I’m not married. This... this... — she tried to pull the ring off, but it wouldn’t budge. — What the hell?!

The bartender raised his eyebrows at her frantic attempts.

 — I didn’t mean to offend you, Mrs. I just —

 — Stop calling me that! — Lauren snapped, slamming her hand against the bar. — Ow, fuck, that hurts! — she groaned, cradling her knuckles. The pathetic sound only made her angrier. — Damn bar, damn ring, damn day, damn—!

Her rant stopped abruptly when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored panel behind the counter. A young, attractive brunette with angry but undeniably expressive eyes stared back at her. And that face only enraged her further.

Lauren forced herself to breathe in and out, though each breath made her chest rise and fall in a way she couldn’t ignore. "Calm down, Mark. You’re still you. You’ll figure this out... probably." She wasn’t convinced.

A few hours ago, she — or rather, he — had been just a regular guy. Mark: a 27-year-old software developer working from home, someone who hated unnecessary complications. He liked his routine: morning jogs in snug athletic shorts, coffee from a thermos, and a crisp pale ale after a long day at the laptop. Life had been simple, predictable, and satisfying — everything ran on schedule.

But this morning, he’d decided to jog a new route through a suburban neighborhood. Everything was fine until he passed an old, unkempt house with a "Private Property" sign. Mark hadn’t planned to stop, but as he jogged by, a bright flash of light burst from one of the windows, like lightning striking indoors. The air around him felt heavy, electric. He froze, and then the world seemed to spin, pulling him into a vortex of disorientation.

When he came to, he was no longer himself. His legs were slimmer, his hair longer, and his body... well, there was now extra weight at the front and back. He had become Lauren — a female version of himself from some alternate universe.

He — or she, now — had stumbled home, trying to piece together what had happened. But home wasn’t what it used to be. Instead of shock, her family greeted her as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Mark’s mother had exclaimed happily, "Lauren, honey! So glad you stopped by after your jog!" His brother, who Mark had been pestering that morning to pay back a gaming debt, simply said, "What are you doing here? Complaining about something again? Chill out, sis."

In this world, Mark had never existed. There was only Lauren.