# The Chicago Defender/Early Autumn

This is the original version of the story, published Sept. 30, 1950 in the Chicago Defender. The story was later anthologized in Something in Common and Other Stories and The Short Stories of Langston Hughes. Later versions may have changes, and may be under copyright.
Langston Hughes
Early Autumn: A Short Short Story About Early Love
When he was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking, or talking, together. But something not very important had come between them. Then she had married a man she thought she loved. And the boy went away, bitter about women.
Yesterday (fifteen years gone by) walking across Washington Square, she saw him.
“Hello, Bill Walker,” she said.
He stopped. But at first he did not recognize her, to him she looked so old.
“Mary! Where did you come from?”
She lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took it.
“I live here now,” she said, “in New York.”
“Oh,” smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
“Always wondered what happened to you, Bill.”
“I’m a lawyer. Nice firm. Downtown.”
“Married yet?”
“Sure. Two kids.”
“Oh,” she said.
A great many people went by them through the park. People they didn’t know. It was late afternoon. Nearly sunset and cold.
“And you husband?” he asked.
“We have three children. I’m working in the busar’s office at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very…” (he wanted to say old) … “well,” he said.
But she understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, desperately she found herself reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now, she was not young any longer at all. Not young! Not young! But Bill was still young.
“We live on Central Park West,” she said. “Come and see me sometime.”
“Sure,” he replied. “And you and your husband have dinner with us some night. Any night. Lucille and I’d love to have you.”
The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a little sick.
“We’d love it, too,” she answered.
“You ought to see my kids,” he grinned.
Suddenly the lights came on—up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, double chains of brilliance in the blue air.
“I must go,” she said. “There’s my bus.”
He held out his hand, “Goodbye.”
“When—,” she wanted to say, but the busman was ready to pull off. The lights on the Avenue twinkled, blurred, twinkled and blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth. Afraid it would be impossible to utter a single word.
“Goodbye!” she shrieked very loudly, but the door had closed.
The bus started. People were between them, people crossing the street, people they didn’t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill.
Then she remembered she had forgotten to give him her address; or to ask him for his; or to tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill, too.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) between 1929 and 1977 (inclusive) without a copyright notice.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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