She, Cousin Barry, and I are behind the junior high, on a blanket spread on the grass, keeping an eye out for school employees and police while we smoke a joint of hash and tobacco. It’s rare that I see Barry more than once every few weeks, but Arno and Milton aren’t around today, and I’m finding it difficult to adjust to the emptiness of life without Robin. Except for Easter vacation this year, we haven’t been apart for more than a day since last fall.

The weather is overcast, warm, and breezy. Barry sits cross-legged, working a string connected to a red-and-black kite shaped like a ladybug fluttering a hundred feet above. He says the hash and tobacco mixture is popular in Europe.

Tinsley lies on her stomach, shooting photos of Barry’s profile. I’m lying on my side reading the book, which is mostly not about trout fishing. Even more than usual, I’m finding it difficult to focus. Partly it’s the hash, which is a lot more potent than the twig-and-seed-littered weed we often encounter. Partly it’s the very dark and ominous cloud called Vietnam that now looms ever present in my thoughts. But at this moment much of my distraction is due to Tinsley.

According to Time magazine, we have entered the era of women’s liberation. Females are throwing off their sexpot and housewife stereotypes and throwing out their bras, razors, and hair dryers. They call it going natural.

In Tinsley’s case, it appears she’s held on to the razor. Nor has she given up her eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. The eyebrows she likes to raise tantalizingly are carefully sculpted, and her fingernails are glossy. But her peasant blouse has a loose, open neckline, and when she props herself on her elbows and holds the camera to her face, you can see her breasts all the way to the pink nipples. (I have to believe she’s aware of this.)

Only it’s more than bare skin. Her vibe is alluring, vulnerable and inviting, impossible to ignore. The way the small of her back curves. The way, when she lies on her stomach, her legs scissor at the knees, toes pointed upward.

Her presence makes me wonder if hanging out with Barry today is a mistake. I shouldn’t be entertaining these thoughts, even while high. My aching heart belongs to Robin. Plus there’s the bitter memory of the blonde in the MG. It’s not that I didn’t know the paterfamilias cheats on Mom. He’s been doing it for years. But it’s one of those recollections that lies dormant in the distant reaches of some deep cave of the mind and only awakens when something like last Sunday jars it.