By the second scene the little kettles were already warming in the wings. When the curtain paused, ushers set one on each aisle table. The pause smelled of chamomile. People stood, stretched, and came back to their seats a little kinder than they had left them.
We asked by the kiosk in the lobby. “I used to rush the ice cream queue and miss the first line of act two,” said a man still holding his program. “Now I wait for the click and sit down on purpose.” A woman with a wool wrap added, “Mine poured itself a cup and then offered me the rest. I clapped for the kettle before the play.”
A card from the house manager, tucked under a saucer: Please let the pause finish its sip. The third act will wait. Kindness is easier when nobody is thirsty.
The next evening the same couple returned, asked for the same table, and left a thank-you note folded like a ticket. The kettles, already warm, clicked once in reply.