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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...