But I suspect that saying in letters that I’ve changed isn’t enough. She needs to see the evidence herself. I plan on going nine smoke-free hours with her tomorrow. I’ll have time to tell her about my plans for the future, provided of course that the future doesn’t involve jungle combat. (It’s Friday, and I’ll be back in time to see Charles on Monday night. He’s returned from his trip and has promised that we’ll try to figure out the next step, one that doesn’t involve a personal moral code and just-war theory.) And yes, I’ll be a ski bum this winter, but I’ll also be researching other possibilities, like the Peace Corps, working for civil rights, maybe applying to Goddard again. At this point, those may just be words, but if I can hold on to her long enough, she’ll see that I mean them.

“Looking forward to seeing your girlfriend?” Tinsley and I are sitting on a bench outside a Thruway Hot Shoppe, watching the orange sun drop toward the rounded green caps of distant mountains. Barry is inside using the john. Tinsley is wearing her wide-brimmed straw hat and purple glasses. Drivers, truckers, and families pass on the sidewalk. Lots of double takes. Lots of stares, following the exotic scent of Tinsley’s clove cigarette. She is rocking one leg over the other, the toe of her cowboy boot sticking out from under the long purple Indian-print skirt.

“Yes, very much so” is my answer. (Though I wonder what she’d think if she knew on how many lonely nights these past few weeks it’s been her I’ve undressed in carnal fantasies?)

She exhales clove-scented smoke. Her face and clothes are tinted in orange sunlight. “What do you think of groupies, Lucas?”

“Uh, don’t know.” What I do know is that Tinsley seems to enjoy tossing out non sequiturs, as if ordered thoughts are yet another social construct she seeks liberation from.

“I think they’re fabulous,” she says. “Having sex with no strings attached. Just the way men always have.”

“So, uh, gonna try it?”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “No! Rock stars are gross. My father’s new petite copine is a booking agent, and she got me and a friend backstage passes to meet Hendrix at Madison Square Garden. We were so jazzed. But then there was this other band there. I don’t know if they were an opening act or what, but they were absolutely disgusting. When you got up close to them, they reeked. And they couldn’t keep their grimy hands to themselves.” She flicks ash from her cigarette and shivers. “We had to leave. Never even got to meet Jimi.”