This is Keke Frost. I live on her couch.
Sometimes she discusses sex work other times she talks about international relations with men she meets on Bumble while she grades their students’ papers in exchange for their free expertise in their professional world (I told her to stock up in case she wants that PhD on the topic). Later in the night she kicks them out when they get too attached.
But usually she skips those kind that since nowadays she likes the silver foxes who take her out to oyster bars where she can invite friends like me to come drink aged wine from California specialty vineyards.
When I come back from the rooftop usually there is a joint in her hand and I give her 15 minutes before she starts talking about psychoactive drugs while rearranging the tropical plants in the apartment mumbling about keeping the air at 80 degrees for their room temperature and how she sometimes puts all 7 of them in the center of the living room to admire during the day.
When I sent her a pic of my totaled car she sent me three Venmo payments one for $5, one for $2 and one for $1.50 to “thank me for existing” and maybe because I’d like “a tea to calm me down” or something. Then asks if I want to go to Chicago the next day and New York City for Christmas.
Pictured is her lighting a spliff and a portrait of her and a book of poetry behind her that some men drew and wrote for her that she kept after they asked for it all back.