<\/p>\n
When Bill was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking, talking together. Then something not very important had come between them, and they didn\u2019t speak. Impulsively, she had married a man she thought she loved. Bill went away, bitter about women.<\/p>\n
Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years.<\/p>\n
\u201cBill Walker,\u201d she said.
\nHe stopped. At first he did not recognize her, to him she looked so old.
\n\u201cMary! Where did you come from?\u201d
\nUnconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took it.
\n\u201cI live in New York now,\u201d she said.
\n\u201cOh\u201d \u2014 smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
\n\u201cAlways wondered what happened to you, Bill.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.\u201d
\n\u201cMarried yet?\u201d
\n\u201cSure. Two kids.\u201d
\n\u201cOh,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
A great many people went past them through the park. People they didn\u2019t know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd your husband?\u201d he asked her.
\n\u201cWe have three children. I work in the bursar\u2019s office at Columbia.\u201d
\n\u201cYou\u2019re looking very . . .\u201d (he wanted to say old) \u201c. . . well,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
She understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, she found herself desperately reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all. Bill was still young.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe live on Central Park West,\u201d she said. \u201cCome and see us sometime.\u201d
\n\u201cSure,\u201d he replied. \u201cYou and your husband must have dinner with my family some night. Any night. Lucille and I\u2019d love to have you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a little sick.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019d love it,\u201d she answered.
\n\u201cYou ought to see my kids.\u201d He grinned.<\/p>\n
Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in the blue air.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s my bus,\u201d she said.
\nHe held out his hand. \u201cGood-bye.\u201d
\n\u201cWhen . . .\u201d she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off. The lights on the avenue blurred, twinkled, blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a word.<\/p>\n
Suddenly she shrieked very loudly. \u201cGood-bye!\u201d But the bus door had closed.<\/p>\n
The bus started. People came between them outside, people crossing the street, people they didn\u2019t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address \u2014 or to ask him for his \u2014 or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill too.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Langston Hughes (1902-1967), from\u00a0the\u00a0Chicago Defender\u00a0of\u00a0September 30, 1950<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"