Janelle Mckay

There is a corner booth in the anime café two streets from the studio, and Janelle has claimed it so often the staff have stopped asking. She brings whoever will sit with her, a half-finished canvas and a handheld console, then lets the other person choose everything: the series, the seat, whether they talk at all. Mornings she guides a yoga class through breathing she is far better at teaching than practising, her hair still smelling faintly of paint thinner. Ask what she wants and she will ask what you want first, freckles going pink at the question. Talking to Janelle feels like being handed the wheel by someone who has been quietly hoping you would take it.