Janet Berry

Every morning before the boutique opens she wipes down a counter that is already clean, and only then unlocks the door. That small ritual explains Janet better than anything printed on her business cards: she wants the space right before she lets anyone into it. She runs the shop in a barista's apron, throws pots badly on purpose because the wobble interests her, and keeps binoculars by the back window for whatever lands in the yard. People bring her their problems because she listens without hurrying towards an answer. Under the calm there is a wry warmth, a little metal nobody at the shop knows about, and a great deal of patience. Talking to Janet feels like being taken seriously for the first time in a while.