From more than halfway down the block I saw part of his right arm, partially obscured by the trees lining the sidewalk. Just a patch of fabric on a light-blue polo shirt. I recognized him instantly. Funny I knew it was him with so little to go on.
I didn’t quite believe myself, so I waited until I cleared the trees so I could see more of him. Yes. There was the cigarette. I could see the outline of his glasses.
I can pick him out of a crowd by a gesture or the way he walks. The way he sways his arm. The way he plants a step. There’s an indelible imprint on my mind of all sort of of subtle clues, most of which I probably don’t even know about.
It was remarkable to me in that moment how well I must know him, after all these years. It made me proud. It felt like he was as familiar as my own reflection. It’s the stuff people hope for in a relationship. It’s the stuff you get old remembering together.
Then a terrible thought hit me. Maybe it’s just the laundry that I know so well.
... but enough about me 
That made me laugh. I know exactly what you mean!