a coveted seat

Why is it that when you can’t have something, it seems to become more valuable?

A week or so ago I read about a play that sounded interesting:

It’s a two-person drama involving a teacher who has recently suspended one of her 11- year old students, and the mother of that  student who shows up for a previously scheduled parent-teacher conference.  A few hours after being suspended, the child comes home and kills himself. The mother is seeking answers.

Despite the tickets being under $20, I can't find anyone who wants to go with me.  I have many theater-loving friends, but none are interested in this play.  I’m not even sure I am.

But the online reviews are good, and I decide I've been hibernating too much this winter.

On Monday, I go to the ticket office to buy a ticket for next Sunday.  “I’m sorry, we are all sold out on that date.”  I give the ticket agent another date and get the same response.  Then she says, “Oh, wait, we are sold out for the remainder of the run.”  Now I really want to go.  If this many people like it, surely it must be worth seeing.  The agent tells me to keep checking online, as sometimes the production company gives back seats they are holding. 

So several times a day I check.  Then this afternoon, I see an available ticket for tonight.  I buy it.

I get to the theater early, along with many others.  It's open-seating. I see a woman, mid-70’s I’d guess.  She is conservatively dressed.  She smiles at the young Hispanic usher and says, “I love your tattoo.”  He has a tiger slinking up his arm.  I am amazed by the sincerity of the compliment.  

The 85-minute play is riveting but also flawed. I think I'm glad I saw it, though now I'm afraid its disturbing topic will stay with me longer than I want.  I come home, wishing Alexander were here so I could give him a hug.