On the days Jack cooked breakfast, I was his sous chef—I fried eggs or whipped together simple mixtures I knew by heart. Eggs and bacon, or gourmet oatmeal, toast, coffee, orange juice, milk. Wanting to get the dog away from me, I threw scraps of bacon or rubbery scrambled eggs across the kitchen, where they splatted in a far corner. Together Jack and I created a serviceable meal, usually finishing up just as Chrissy breezed in, still sleepy-eyed. Afterward we washed the dishes, each of us taking turns according to the day. We were responsible adults, always doing the dishes immediately following a meal and rarely later, though on the days it was not my turn I often found dirty dishes lingering in the sink hours after eating, the egg residue drying into an implacable scum, but instead of complaining I washed them myself, enjoying harmless, catty thoughts.

In the living room, in its cage, the canary chirped. I fed it or cleaned up after it while keeping my mind blank.

After a leisurely breakfast I brushed my hair and dressed for work. The dog nipped at my heels and I ignored it. I had a wide collection of pantyhose I rolled on day after day, sometimes taking them down from where I’d draped them over the shower rod after washing them the night before, and my closet and bureau were stocked full of bohemian jumpers and bell-bottom jeans, modest skirts and turtlenecks, though the longer I was Janet the sleeker my wardrobe became—tailored jeans and blouses, professional midi dresses. After dressing and doing my makeup I left the apartment and caught the bus on the corner.

Every day, the dog followed me outside. Then, as soon as the bus doors hissed shut, it would turn toward the woods and disappear. Watching it flee from my bus seat, I would close my eyes, relieved.

The bus began its daily trek, stopping with a hiss at several places as I patiently waited. Sometimes I observed the buildings and road; sometimes I looked at the sky, noticing the weather; sometimes I stared into space and thought of the workday ahead, anxious to get the day started, or of the news I had read that morning over breakfast. My head was pleasantly calm. When the bus stopped a block away from Arcade Florists, my workplace, I disembarked and walked the remaining distance, happy to be out in the fresh air, moving my body. This was forward motion, this was progress. My penchant for industrious, righteous movement infected every one of my waking Janet moments, the anxiety of sloth, of idleness, always pricking at the edge of my mind, prodding me forward.

At first I was merely a full-time associate who worked the register and fed and watered the plants, and who sometimes assisted in flower arranging, but six months in, during Season 2’s “Janet’s Promotion,” I was promoted to shop manager. Readying the shop for opening became one of my many new duties, which included counting the money, spritzing the ferns, getting the merchandise in order, looking over yesterday’s figures, preparing for the day ahead. I checked the paperwork—was today the Benson wedding, that fateful event in Season 2’s “Jack in the Flower Shop”? No, nothing major today, just a few phone pickup orders made last night before closing, and I got right on them, efficiently and expertly gathering the materials needed. Then I unlocked the doors and turned the sign over to say OPEN.