WICKED.

It was perfect.

A perfect break from school-life reality.

A perfect front row seat.

A perfect performance of Wicked!

...........................

Assigned reading would have to wait (or be forgotten). I have two major research papers to finish in little over two weeks. Graded assignments would have to be prioritized.

6:22 p.m.

I'm already hunkered down at the kitchen table for a glorious night of researching human trafficking, when he arrives home. I look up, but am more focused on the task at hand to notice the probable smirk that was spreading across his face.

6:23 p.m.

Carefully (perhaps hestitantly), these are set down in front of me.

6:24 p.m.

My mind registers the rectangular pieces of paper. He's beaming. I listen to him recount the story. There's love behind the standing in line, defeatedly being told the show is sold out. There's love in the nights he told me he was working late, but instead stood in the cool air hopeful that his name would be called. There's love behind his eagerness to tell me of the tickets choosing him moreso than him choosing them. It's fate.

7:12 p.m.

I change three times. I want to look like I'm going to the theatre. And I want to look good for him.

7:29 p.m.

The bus is on schedule. It weaves its way downtown.

7:50 p.m.

There's 10 minutes till curtain. There's not enough time, but he insists on toasting to the occasion. I get wine, he gets beer; each one wrapped in plastic, safety first.

7:52 p.m.

The tickets point us to a pair of seats. Orchestra section. First row. Number 5 and 6.

There's excitement in the overgrown room, along with a dragon and a map.

8:01 p.m.

I'm whisked away to a fantastical land. It is a land of magic and munchkins, of evil and good, of beautiful musical escapes and endless grey misunderstandings. I sat next to him, often stealing glances of true newlywed proportion. The costumes dazzled and the facial expressions were visible. The monkeys terrorized. The witches were friends.

It was perfect.