Dukey had shut off the oven, came into the bathroom where Clara was reacting not to the wine the night before, but to the sickening smell of the lasagna. "no Dukey, not wine. It is that lasagna, it is making me sick." Again the aroma hit her nostrils because he left the door open. She missed, and the puke hit his shin, running down to his shoe. "Sorry, Dukey."