I snap my fingers next to his ear. Nothing. Clap my hands. Give the couch a few kicks. The rapist doesn’t stir. Opportunity is knocking, hard. I close the blinds, holdovers from before the renovation. I place the blankets on the nails that are waiting for them so no one can see through the windows. It’s after nine at night anyway, so everyone else’s windows will be covered with curtains or blinds. I could carry out my plan in broad daylight and no one would notice. But I can’t get impatient, I have to stay careful.

I move all the furniture away from the couch so I won’t bump into anything. I can’t believe my luck, though situations like this are exactly the reason I never leave my house without hockey tape, an X-acto knife, gloves, and a toque. I don’t wear a balaclava, too clichéd. Plus my face gives me a little extra time. People panic when they see a balaclava, and adrenalin is my worst enemy. My sweet little face, on the other hand, leaves me a window to take action. The lights are turned off before anyone has time to see what I look like anyway.

Not wearing a balaclava is also one less thing for me to think about. Imagine how embarrassed I’d be if I fled the scene and forgot my face was covered by a balaclava. A toque, on the other hand, can always pass as an eccentricity.

I bind his hands with tape. He doesn’t wake up. Then his feet. The TV’s gleam is the only light on us. I delicately drape one of his T-shirts over his eyes, folded in half. A black Slipknot T-shirt. I realize I’m humming the melody of the song playing in the background.

I wrap the T-shirt around the armrest, to immobilize his head. I pinch his nose a few seconds until he stirs a little and then starts snoring again. I use almost an entire roll of hockey tape to tie him to the couch. The smell of bilious vodka on his breath gives me the feeling that he isn’t going to put up much of a fight.

A song I really like comes on. The TV’s showing a rerun of an afternoon show, with guests gushing over a sardine and clementine salad. I hear the upstairs tenants walking from their kitchen to their bedroom, then the bathroom. A shower or a bath. The pipes fastened to the ceiling register a collective protest.