Big Salmon Lake open up your skull, i'll be there

Before a migraine, there is usually an aura.
As the pale woman approaches, he blinks feverishly, but the aura refuses to leave him, clings stubbornly onto his vision like a cockroach in a nuclear blast, just a black cigarette burn blur. 
She asks, are you ok, and Urias would've laughed, he would've stood up and bared all his teeth and really laughed, but a wave of vertigo rolls over him and under him and all around him. He closes his eyes until he's back on the ground again.
He scrubs his hands through his hair, composes himself, scoops the anger into a plastic bag and chucks it into an incinerator. He pinches the bridge of his nose like air is leaking from it. I'm lost. From 100 to 0, just like that. Only his hair, all askew, suggested that he had been through any distress.
Even in the face of a psychosomatic explosion in his head, he strives for politeness first.