#78, Ms. Donohue.

My 7th grade French teacher. i was new at this school, and late to start, so i had a helluva time. French was the only language class with any space left, otherwise i would have been in Spanish and who knows how my life would have turned out? i certainly wouldn't have been able to enter that shop and ask for a parapluie that time i was walking around the streets of Paris and it suddenly began to rain cats and dogs. (Chats et chiens.)
Where were we? Right, Ms. Donohue- lots of big, horsey teeth and a short crop of dark silver hair. A winning smile and a sweet, pretty face. For some reason i always thought that she didn't have very many friends among the other teachers at my school. My name in class was "Françine", which i absolutely loathed, but there was no translation of "Heather" and all the cool feminine names were already taken. i used to sit at the back of the class and tie rubber bands around my fingertips just to watch them change colors and become cold, bloodless. (Did you know that each finger on your hand turns a different color? It's true.) i remember once winning an art contest in class, and always thought it was because she felt sorry for me. On special days we would watch movies (La Boum!), and once a week or so we'd watch Téléfrançais, when i swear Ms. Donohue would stand in the back and smile and sing along with the opening song. Adorable. i think she worried about me being so strange, and tried to befriend me by talking to me about rock music, although her references were usually a tad old; we once had a halting conversation about Golden Earring's "Radar Love". And when she found out i drank coffee (no idea how that happened, by the way), she became quite concerned and cited a study that linked caffeine consumption in women with higher breast cancer rates. So mothering. i hope she's still there, still teaching, and still caring about the next crop of troubled kids.

#77, Brian from H's.

An adorable young chappie who used to work at the market where my flower shop is located. With a mop of curly hair, skin-tight jeans, and pea coats on colder days, Brian was amazed that i had Muslim Gauze on my iPod, and got me hooked on the song "Blind" by Hercules and Love Affair. We were constantly talking about music; old and new, live and recorded. B was still figuring out his sexual identity and was almost always hung over when i would see him walking to work in the early afternoons. He finally moved to a cooler area of the city, and i never realized how much i would miss him spending his break at the flower shop: changing the music we were listening to without asking and using our microwave to heat up his food, always bitching about his managers and sitting on our (only) stool. Brian! You cad. Where are you these days? It's lonely here without you.

#76, "John Poet".

He comes in every week, usually on Tuesdays. Quiet, slim, soft-spoken, greying hair and jeans with boots. Always a satchel. Buys one stem of alstroemeria, one piece of fern, and a pinch of bear grass (for the cat, he explains). Likes to have long chats with a certain co-worker of mine, which used to make me weirdly jealous, because i had never spoken a single word to him. One day he brought in a miniature crystal blue rose in a vase, because the week before she had convinced him to finally read The Glass Menagerie. He'd asked me if i'd read it, and because i said no he brought me a copy of the play today. He was transporting it in the bubble mailer, still, and the name on the label? John Poet.
And we've discussed this. We don't think it's his real name, but all the same– it really should be.

#75, Jeanelle.

We worked together at the stained glass store. You were tall and boyish, with a mischievous grin and short black hair. When we "helped out" with the night classes, we'd sit in the front of the store watching Sifl and Olly videos while everyone diligently worked on their lamps. We drove around in your Impala blasting "Slim Shady" when Eminem first appeared on the scene. Often we would end up walking along the train tracks, drinking Heinekens, ogling graffiti in complete silence. Once, we clambered atop a defunct locomotive car and threw our empty bottles through the nearby (also defunct) warehouse windows. Filled with thrill, we clambered back down to the car, laughing as we screeched away because our clothes were covered with soot.

#74, Suzy.

You were Z's best friend (such unlikely companions!). Tall and full of snark, you painted your nails and constantly sported new kicks. You smoked way too much and loved owls intensely. Your cat's name was Tortuga, and you had comfort in Busta Rhymes and Missy Elliott. Anxiety was your middle name, before anyone even knew what Prozac was. i often felt we were kindred spirits, even though you were so judgmental it was, at times, profoundly caustic. The last time i saw you was at the Fire Festival, where you told me that you'd gotten married. That was years ago... my sis and i really miss you, too.

#73, Zebra.

Zed. Gregory. You helped Nat spin fire for the first time (in your backyard), with some rags, a can of gasoline, and a couple of lengths of chain. You painted the walls of your living room blood red, and for a short while seemed to subsist entirely on chocolate-covered orange jellies... You taped down the tumor in your chest with duct tape, and even when angry you always wore a Cheshire grin. You stomped around in boots, competed in the Puke Olympics, and traded Siouxsie videos with me. One day you moved away. Me and my sis miss you so.