Arguing Couple at the Club The Remote of Transformation chapter 5 by ThePanswapticon

Jerry lounged half-turned on his barstool, dress hugging every new curve, remote tucked snug beneath the strap crossing his ribs. The club roared—bass stomping, neon slicing smoke, sweat and spilled booze mixing into that Friday‑night musk that said people were here to forget things. He’d already learned that if he breathed deep and arched his back a little, men delivered drinks like room service. Handy.

Now he hunted. Someone in here deserved a little reality edit. He scanned the moving bodies—dancers, posers, thirsty packs of guys—and then locked on a couple imploding at a high‑top near the edge of the floor under a busted LED sign. Jackpot.

She ran hot. Young, sharp‑jawed, loud enough to cut through bass. Neon green crop top; rhinestone straps; tan legs crossed tight on a barstool; dark eyeliner winged hard enough to stab. She stabbed, verbally, instead.

“You dragged me here to stand?” She flicked her nails toward the dance floor. “We’ve been out fifteen minutes and you’ve checked the game twice.”

He stood broad and planted, forearms vascular, chin tipped like he’d practiced mirror confidence. Tight polo, sunburn neck, gym bulk with protein‑powder breath. Proud. Defensive. Not listening.

“I said we’d hit a bar, not host your birthday tour.” He sucked beer foam off his thumb and waved at the DJ like he owned sound. “I came to relax. You start in the car, you still going now. You on your period or what?”

Heads turned. Even over the music.

Her laugh snapped like a mousetrap. “Yeah, that’s it. Bleeding = my fault. Grow up.”

He rolled his eyes. “Every month it’s this. Cranky, drama, bang‑or‑ban roulette. I just wanted beers.”

The woman kept going. “You think mood swings are a choice? My uterus decides I’m a grenade and you call me dramatic.”

He pointed his beer at her. “Your ‘uterus grenade’ doesn’t explain why you nuked dinner last week.”

“You said your mom cooks better.”

“She does!”

She leaned forward so hard her rhinestones flashed. “I wish you knew what it’s like. Heels carving your feet, dudes grabbing, cramps stabbing your spine, and yeah—blood. Try managing a white skirt when the bathroom lines are thirty deep.”

He fired back without blinking. “I wish someone else had to deal with your shit for once.”

Jerry smothered a laugh behind his glass. These two deserved each other, but not how they were currently configured. What if he took them at their word? Let him “deal with her shit.” Let her show him “what it’s like.” Not symbolically. Literally.

He palmed the remote. The little screen brightened.