Vignette

He picked up the mail on his way back from the beach.  Even at 78 he was still a good looking,  comfortable seeming man.  Women liked to look at him, wrinkles and all, which amused him no end.
As he strolled, he opened two bills and a letter from home, from a cousin he still kept in touch with. The Baileys tended to keep track of each other, it was a large family, and the web reached into four countries and two continents.

She wrote, 'don't know if you've heard it yet, but Tura died last week. We tried to reach you but I guess you were off somewhere.  Not sure how much it matters, it's been, what, 23 years?  But you needed to know, anyway.  She didn't suffer, it was quick, thank the lord.   She's in EastWood, buried next to the boys and your folks.  I enclosed the obituary,  in case you want to keep it, or check it for errors. .."

There was more, but he put it all back in the envelope while he unlocked the door into the coolness of a California air conditioned house, shuttered against the sun, the faint whir of the fans.

Later, after a drink and supper he went for a walk across the complex, waved to a few people he knew, changed his mind about visiting Reno's Bar, came home again.  At midnight he finally realized he couldnt put it off any longer, and shut out the light for sleep.  He knew he'd dream, not all of it good, not all of it bad.  This time, however, he waited for the dream to tell  him how he felt inside.