(Maybe it mattered solely because I've been reading Kerouac, and maybe it was the disheveled hair and three of four days' growth of beard on his chin that made him look travel-worn.)
He turned the corner of Lemon and College,
several yards in front of me.
A few houses down, he climbed the steps slowly, to the front door of a nicely-kept house.
It was a place where a family, maybe older, certainly rich, would live. But his door was the smaller front door, where he was probably renting from the nice family.
No stir was perceptible as he entered, late morning.
I thought, "he is coming home after a long journey. And I am the only one who knows."
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