“Karl. Wake up.”

“Uhhhh.”

“C’mon, wake up, Karl,” she says.

“Huh?”

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

“Uhhrrggg.”

It’s a gritty gurgling sound, a reflexive groaning sticky with pain, raw with confusion in a blur of reality that’s too stabbing bright. And the smells. Ohmigod! Gut-wrenching odors. A miasma of scented cleaning fluids rolling in on a surf of nausea while an artillery barrage explodes in my skull with every pulse of my heart.

Boom, boom…boom, boom…boom, boom.

Closing my eyes eases the vertigo and allows me a moment to breathe in a slow deep lungful, holding it on a count…one…two…three…four…exhausting it through ruffling lips…one…two…three…four…repeating, while wishing for that bliss of unconsciousness, resisting this wakefulness, finally accepting it and daring to flutter my eyelids open again.

The dizzying abstraction of Holly coalesces into a comprehensible human form, her floral perfume renewing the assault on my olfactory lobes, as if somehow seeing amplifies the other senses. She adjusts the furry pillow behind my head, drawing me into the slippery softness of her ivory silk robe. Her lacy underthings peek through the robe’s cleft while she applies an icy cold pack to my head. It soothes the wicked hurt there.

“Did you hear me?”

“What’s happening again?” My voice sounds rough and strange, like an inhuman creature’s hijacked it.

“You were out cold on the kitchen floor when I came downstairs. Looks like you did a header into the counter. That must have hurt.”

“Still does,” I croak.

“I managed to get you up and to the couch. You don’t remember that?”

“Nope, no memory of it.”

“You were mumbling the whole time,” she says. “You don’t remember that either?”

My head wants to shake No! but it would not feel good. Plus it would dislodge the cold thing from my head. “Nope,” I say. “Don’t remember a thing.”

“You were going on about the horror.” Holly leans away, skepticism meandering across her face and taking its own sweet time about it.

“Was having a really weird dream,” I say.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” She says, sotto voce, as if we’re not alone in this room. “From the beginning.”

“Fine,” I say, not feeling it, but that’s okay. Movement at my feet alerts me that Holly’s little dog is on the couch adding insult to injury.

“Came home late after stopping at the market. Thought to make a noodle dish, serve it chilled with cucumbers with bright summery herbs. Mint, basil, cilantro, chives. The usual dressing for the noodles with tamari, toasted sesame oil, little dab of sriracha. A plant-based protein. Be refreshing in this heat.”

“Sounds yummy,” she says, “but you’re evading the question.”

“Getting there,” I say. “My head feels like inside of a big bass drum.” Her silky gown tickles my face when she reaches over to stroke my cheek. It feels nice. “Everything smells so strong. The jasmine of your perfume—which I normally appreciate—is over-ripe with acrid notes of red wine. Possibly a Bordeaux?” She backs away looking stricken. “No, no, it’s not so bad now. You smell fine. It’s the head bump making me sick. And your hand feels soft and cool on my face.”

“You probably have a concussion,” she says, but keeps her distance. “Now keep talking.”

“Right, right. You were upstairs, presumably in the shower. I put a pot on to make the noodles and began staging the ingredients. You know I like to do that. Meanwhile, your little dog is underfoot looking to end me. So, I’m setting up to make dinner, and he tangles me up,” I say. “Because, you know he hates me.”

“First of all, why won’t you call him by his name? Secondly, you’re projecting your hate.” On cue, her little dog appears at the other end of the couch making snorting sounds. Then he turns around twice before curling up next to my feet, head on my leg to keep an eye on me. “See, he loves you, so I claim la foutaise!” Which translates to bullshit in French. Holly’s swears in French. “It won’t work this time, Karl.” She got to her little dog I refuse to call by name, petting and cooing while he gives me side eye. I’ve lost her.

“It’s late and you’re getting all fancy to go out. Don’t let me keep you.” I start to get up and it dislodges the cold thing which turns out to be a bag of frozen peas, something I always keep in the freezer. They’ve lost their cooling chill anyway.

“Don’t change the subject,” Holly says. “Just tell me what happened. And no fantasy story this time.”

“There s a gap in my memory. I remember coming home, checking on you upstairs, coming downstairs to make dinner, then waking up here, totally disoriented with a lump on my head.”

She’s not having it, head shaking nope back and forth. “We’re both busy with life and stuff, but you’ve been avoiding me. Then you come home late to cook dinner, which is great, I’m not complaining, but you fall down, crack your head and clearly, your face was already bruised,” she says.

“You should see the other guy.”

“Haha,” she says, “that’s not even funny

“But he’s okay. Nothing fatal.”

“Is that how you’re sublimating? Just tell me what the hell’s going on. That’s all I want to know.”

Even under these circumstances, it has been nice being here with Holly showing her pretty baubles, her gentle hands petting me in a sweet maternal way. “Sorry,” I say. “So, how’s the gallery launch coming along?”

“It’s a train wreck waiting to happen,” she says. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I don’t even remember the subject. Everything’s still fuzzy around the edges.”

She holds up her hand, points a finger at me. “Just tell me the last thing you remember?”

“One finger,” I say.

“Pretty sure you have a concussion,” she says, shaking her head in frustration. “Seriously, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Minding my own business doing katas at the dojo when this badass comes over and starts giving me shit so we went to the mat. He was good. Got a few shots in, landed a spin kick to my face,” I say, my hand feeling the old bruise, still tender, before examining the forehead lump that’s risen like a muffin top. “Gave me a good workout.”

“Good to know but what’s the last thing you remember before you conked your head and passed out on the kitchen floor?”

“Hm, let me think…I was looking in the pantry to see if we had peanuts to sprinkle on the noodle dish. You’re little dog…needed to go outside.” I sit up but my head’s in another time zone. It wants to lay still on the cow-spotted faux-furry pillow. Nausea sneaks back into my semi-disoriented state.

“Yes,” she says, “you left him out there.”

“It was the wine,” I say.

“What wine?”

“The wine in the box in the pantry,” I say. “Egri Bikavér?”

“It’s from the caterer,” she says. “We’re tasting it for opening night. It’s Magyar—Hungarian—in honor of our featured artist, Károly Nagy,” she says.

“Bull’s Blood of Eger. The sacrificial blood of the bull. Seems a bit obvious, doesn’t it?” I say. “There’s a newspaper in the box with the wine. I remember that.”

Holly gets up and heads to the kitchen, her little dog jumping to the floor to follow. When she comes back with the newspaper, her little dog waddles after her. “The newspaper kept the bottles from clinking,” she says. “This is old news, by the way. What am I looking at?”

“The headline, it’s succinct and provocative, no?”

“Valley woman slain.” She looks at me, raising her neat blond eyebrows, before continuing. “Succinct and provocative it is. This must be the article.”

“Yes. Read the rest of it.”

“The 29-year-old woman who was recently found dead in her East Valley home has been identified as Valerie Simpson by the Hampshire County Coroner. Investigating officers reported they’d found Valerie’s semi-nude body on the living room floor after responding to a missing persons report by Ms. Simpson’s supervisor at East Valley Realty where she worked. Her colleagues at the office became concerned when Valerie hadn’t reported for work in the last three days, nor had she responded to repeated phone calls. Valley Realty employed Ms. Simpson as a real estate agent.”

She gives me a look like what the hell dude? “There’s more, should I go on?”

“I think that’s the gist of it.”

“This is terrible, but what’s it got to do with anything?”

“Don’t have a clue,” I say. “But it’s the last thing I remember before waking up on this couch.”

“Oh boy,” she says. “This is when it starts. I can feel it.”

“No, my darling. It started way before this. We both know that.”

“You know the rule,” she says, already in motion. “We don’t talk about the bad thing. Ever.”

Never ever. Oh, the horror.