The Ticket in the Thrift Jacket

Ira found the jacket on a rack at the thrift store on Saturday afternoon. It was brown corduroy, soft at the elbows, and almost exactly the right size. The price tag said four dollars, which seemed too good to be true.

In the left pocket, behind a crumpled tissue, was a ticket. Ira smoothed it flat. It was for a play at the Lantern Theater, row F, seat 12. The date on it was today. The show started at seven. It was already ten past six.

"Somebody will miss this," Ira said to the cashier, who only shrugged. "Not my problem. Four dollars, please."

Ira could have left the ticket in a drawer at home. Instead, Ira ran for the bus. A play about a lighthouse keeper was not what Ira usually chose. But a ticket found in a pocket was hard to ignore.

At the theater, the usher checked the ticket and pointed to row F. In seat 11 sat a small old woman in a green coat, holding her program with both hands. She looked at the jacket, then at Ira, and her mouth fell open.

"That's my husband's jacket," she whispered. "I gave a bag of his clothes away on Thursday. I was cleaning the closet and I forgot the ticket was in the pocket. I thought I had lost it."

"I can give the jacket back," Ira whispered. "It has only been mine for two hours."

"Please don't. He caught a cold and stayed home tonight, and he has never liked that jacket anyway. He says it makes him look like a sofa."

Ira laughed so loudly that a man in front turned around. The lights went down, and the two of them sat quietly. On stage, the lighthouse keeper argued with the sea. The old woman shared her mints. Ira, who had never planned to enjoy the evening, forgot to check the time even once.

Afterward, outside, she buttoned her coat and smiled. "My husband has a ticket for the next play too. If he refuses to come, would you like to join me?"

Ira looked down at the corduroy sleeves and grinned. "Only if I can wear the jacket."