Shaun stares at me.
I asked, as innocently as possible, “Have you ever ticked off a gopher?”
It’s 6:30 am, we’re both wearing 6 layers of clothing, and holding speckled tin cups of coffee, gazing out over the deserted campground.
She’s a city girl. “Ticked off” goes with “frisk for firearms” not gopher.
She squints. There’s a busy person in her brain trying to force a square peg into a round hole.
“How do you tick off a gopher?”, she asks, looking blankly at the picnic table.
I blow steam off my coffee cup. If I answer literally, she won’t understand what I’m suggesting.
“Skunk karma?”, I say.