Lots of people are watching while I have sex with the man I met at the Applebee’s Happy Hour in Margate, Florida. Not because I’m an exhibitionist – although the prospect  sounds intriguing. No, I’m in my father’s apartment, where I happen to be staying. In his bed, which sounds weird, but probably would be weirder if he hadn’t died four days ago. Yes, groans the guy I met over mozzarella sticks and mojitos. Yes. Yes. My fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Cunningham, points out that he doesn’t have the best vocabulary. Do you even know his name, dear, she asks? Do I? It’s Steven or Stuart, something with an S. Mrs. Cunningham wears the same disappointed look she had when I couldn’t subtract fractions. She’s crowded next to the others on both sides of the bed, hovering. They distract from the business at hand.

My friend, Caryn, is there, wanting to know when I’ll come back to New York, telling me about a plan she has to sell knit hats on Etsy. My boss from two jobs ago would like to know what I’m doing with my life. My landlord reminds me I’m behind on my rent. Strangers, too. There’s a lady I saw in the supermarket the other day. She looked so calm and confident, squeezing avocados, placing the ripe ones in an eco-friendly bag. I wanted to ask her how she does it – how she wakes up every morning and gets through the day. My therapist is next to the supermarket lady, taking notes. As usual, he has questions: Why are you sleeping with a stranger? Does it make you feel better? In what way? It’s the same with fractions – I don’t have the right answer.

Steven or Stuart has a mole on his left shoulder and I think about telling him he should get it checked out. He might be a good person, Mrs. Cunningham says. You could give this a chance. I look around for my father. He’s not around. I know where he is. Under a mound of dirt in a cemetery I must have passed dozens of times without giving it a second thought. Even in a box, he still looks like himself. Hasn’t yet turned into ashy white bones.

Now everyone’s talking at once and I can’t make out what they’re saying. I should be embarrassed that they’re seeing me naked, though I don’t really care. I feel naked all the time. Even with my clothes on. More exposed than ever these last few days. You weren’t always a good student. Mrs. Cunningham says. At least you tried. Steven or Stuart stops what he’s doing. What’s wrong? he says, before handing me a Kleenex from the box next to the bed. I dab at my eyes, pretend it’s allergies.

He seems nice, dear, Mrs. Cunningham says. Subtraction is easy, once you give it a shot.

But I don’t believe her.