“Do you like this one?” He showed her his latest creation, framed in the scrolled gold frame he used for all his works, exchanging one for the other almost daily. She screwed up her face. “No, not as much as the others,” she said carefully. She hated not being effusive about his efforts, knowing how excited he was about each drawing, how these drawings meant so much to him, the only “work” he felt he now produced. Retirement was so much harder on men her age than on women she reflected. She herself was thankful not to have to go into an office at a set time anymore, wrangle with people, coax and cajole them, attend meetings where nothing was ever decided. Wiggle her feet in uncomfortable “office” shoes, surreptitiously adjust bra straps, straighten skirts. Now she luxuriated in the morning when she awoke, looking at the time and thinking that she didn’t have to rush anywhere. She woke early out of habit and that, too, was a luxury, looking at the spreading light outside, burro