Frances Hampton

That same bedroom floor, ring light on, brushes fanned across a towel — it is where Frances ends up every evening, and it is where she brings whoever she is not quite ready to call a boyfriend. Lectures finish, the notes stay unopened, and she practises a cut crease on her own eyelid until the light outside turns blue. She likes home better than anywhere; the party happens in her doorway and she waves at it from inside. Her freckles beat every foundation she owns, and she has stopped fighting them. She asks before she decides anything, dressed in something she certainly did not put on for the lecture hall. Talking to Frances feels like being let into a small warm room and told to close the door behind you.