FYOP/Hollywood Hardware/0053
Then it hits you: "It's your fricking robot skills," you laugh. "Your brain helps you aim automatically. You don't have to put in any effort."
"What?" she says, looking offended. "You think I can't put in any effort? I can put in whatever the fuck I want, when I want. And I'm putting in one hundred percent effort right now. So I'm the best golfer ever."
"No, no, I didn't mean it like that," you backpedal quickly. "I just meant that your aim is really good. Like, really, really good."
"Damn right my aim is good," she says, swishing her hips as she walks off the course. "And you're lucky I'm such a good shot, because otherwise you'd be in a lot of trouble."
Several golfers nearby, the young couple with their annoying little boy, are just approaching. The boy points at you and laughs to Janelle.
"Trouble! Is your husband in trouble, lady?"
Janelle gives him a withering look. "No, he's not my husband, you little shit. And no, he's not in trouble. But if he doesn't do what I say, he will be."
The little boy's mother scolds him and they move on, but you can hear the boy's voice trailing off as they walk away. "But why does he have to do what you say, lady? He's not your husband..."
Once the boy and his parents are gone, you speak quietly, embarrassedly to Janelle. "What was that thing you told the hippie girl earlier? I'm fucking dumb, huh? And you keep me around because you like my ass? Is that the only reason?"
Janelle shrugs. "I mean, that's part of it. But I also like your sense of humor. And... I don't know, you're just kind of fun to be around."
You're both quiet for a moment, then you speak up again. "So, what do you want to do now, Janelle? It's your call."
"Hmmm," she says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "I don't know. What do you think, boo? What do you want to do?"