Finally, I take what’s left of my hockey tape to cover Fiset’s mouth. I hold his jaw with my forearm, and the back of his head is stuck against my abdomen. I plug his nose with the other hand and wait. He fights a little but not much. I hope he won’t throw up; I’m not in the mood to wash my clothes in his revolting shower.

I wait seven long minutes before letting go. His chest doesn’t fill up. It smells bad, really bad. Like shit. I let Fiset go, a perilous enterprise since he has shat himself. Gotta keep them separated. There’s no vomit in his mouth, though. He only leaked out one end. I turn him over on his side, toward the back of the couch. His pants are half off, his back full of liquidy excrement. I’m the only person in the world who knows that both the Fiset brothers died with their asses up in the air.

I put the furniture back where it was, and rub away the marks its legs left on the carpet. I roll all the tape up into a ball, put it in a plastic bag, and hide it at the bottom of my bag. I take the weed. I take the empty envelope I sent Fiset, deformed from being pawed by his big moist mitts. I also notice a slender lined notebook with maple leaves on the cover, the kind used by schoolchildren. It’s full of Fiset’s scribbles. Maybe an exercise for his therapy. I put it in my bag too.

I turn down the music. Change the TV channel to one with round-the-clock programming. I resist the temptation to put on the Reality Channel. It’s a rerun tonight: the (true) story of a woman whose face was torn off by her neighbour’s monkey. Poor woman.

9

Humidex

I walk fifty-six minutes before throwing the ball of used tape in a municipal garbage can. It’s 10:44 p.m. when I get back home. I put my clothes in the washing machine: just a soak for now. I don’t want to wake up the neighbours with the machine. I take a nice long shower. I go to sleep.

Tomorrow is the first day of vacation. Three weeks of absolute freedom. No dialogue to translate; no deadlines; no meetings. I’ll have to find a new project since the Fiset play wrapped up ahead of schedule. Priorities. I eat breakfast. Give my parents a call: it’s important to keep up the family ties. Do my laundry. Empty out my backpack, hang it on the clothesline to air it out. Though I can’t quite chase the smell of a dead body evacuating itself, it’s only in my mind, and the simple act of washing my clothes makes me feel better. My work done, I try to enjoy my booty.