Два рассказа на английском

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The dream was fuzzy; a tiny man dressed in tie-dyed lederhosen and wearing a ten-gallon hat was enthusiastically smacking me in the head with a meat tenderizer, all the while singing that Celine Dion song from Titanic. God, I hate that song. And that little cowboy-hippy-munchkin couldn't sing worth a crap.

Reality, when it came oozing into my consciousness, was not so fuzzy, and even more painful; a wicked hangover and a stranger's bed.

Shit.

At least no one was singing that damn song.

Now I've been known to imbibe a bit, sometimes more than is prudent, so the hangover was nothing new.A stranger's bed, however...I gingerly felt behind me for a body and after slowly - very slowly - rolling over to check that indeed I had no company, I let out the breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding.

"Small favors..." I murmured, and winced at the gravely sound of my own voice.

Attempts to switch on my brain to access any memories of the night before proved painful; I had a momentary vision of my tonally challenged cowboy-hippy-munchkin friend switching to a jack-hammer, and a wry, fleeting thought that at least my imagination seemed none the worse for wear.

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