April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions by T.B. Solangel Read Free Book Online Page A

lost dream at this point.
    I am barely three feet away from The Trax when I stop in my tracks.
    “Suni . . . ,” a soft, distinctive voice calls out to me.
    Although I have no recollection or familiarity with the name, I follow the voice emanating from the darkness. A distill sense of silence clouds my judgment for a second. Streetlights are rare around this area of The Trax; the dim lighting from the street rarely marks its presence here. People do not usually linger around these shadows. Whether they are tourists or locals, people typically disappear quickly into the accompanying shops or bars when they enter this part of town. I am the only one who is lingering for a stranger.
    “Hello?” I muster enough courage to call out. Don’t get yourself killed , my conscience taunts.
    “Suni . . . ,” the voice calls again.
    Almost instantly, from the rise and fall of his voice and the repetition, I know it is Brown Eyes. My mind immediately calculates the time frame. He was kicked out of The Trax forty-five minutes ago. He’s still here? I was right. He has no one to take him home.
    Strings tug at my heart. Against my better judgment and Son’s warning, I follow the sound of Brown Eyes’ voice with caution. The dark shadows looming over the side of the large building are the perfect hiding spots for Brown Eyes. His silhouette attaches to the gloom created by the orange moon and black sky. Brown Eyes sticks out like a sore thumb against the background of the area. He does not belong here. Broken sorrow looks like this.
    “Suni . . . ,” he calls wistfully.
    “Hey, are you okay?” I inch closer.
    “Suni . . . ,” he whispers the same hauntingly sad name.
    I realize the closer I move to him, the more I am reducing my chances of walking away. As a matter of fact, I am involved the moment I decide not to go home and find out what is wrong with him. But I cannot leave him. My conscience doesn’t let me. She’s got a tissue box out already.
    Brown Eyes looks pitiful as he sprawls against the side of the building with the residue of vomit drying on the front of his shirt. He is someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s friend, someone’s lover, someone’s everything. And yet, at his saddest moment, Brown Eyes is alone and miserable.
    “I’m going to turn you over on your side ok?” I grab his shoulders and move him to the side so I can reach into his pockets for his wallet. He doesn’t attempt to fight me. In fact, even in his drunken state, Brown Eyes is staring at me with an unreadable expression. God, he’s so beautiful . . . he’s like a tragic, beautiful soul. Joolie’s voice swims in my mind.
    I break eye contact with him and try not to let my personal opinion influence what needs to be done. When I finally find Brown Eyes’ wallet, I open it eagerly and peer in. A flood of information, I am sure, is waiting for me in every single pocket.
    I am sorely disappointed. There is nothing of record inside his leather wallet. No ID. No money. No credit card. But, there is a small picture of a smiling couple. It is too dark for me to make any sense of it. I place everything back into his pocket, and then ask Brown Eyes in clear syllables, “Do. You. Have. A. Cell phone?”
    Brown Eyes doesn’t respond as he slips below consciousness.
    “Hey, try to stay awake. Do you have a cell phone? Someone I can call to help you?” I ask him again.
    When Brown Eyes doesn’t answer, I place a hand around his chin and lift his head up. I realize his temperature is abnormal. I press my right palm against his forehead and my left palm on my own forehead. His temperature must be a few points beyond the healthy ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. I drop both hands and grab his right wrist. With two right fingers, I press them against the vein on his right hand. Brown Eyes’ heart rate is rapid, indicating an irregular body rhythm due to alcohol or illness.
    “What am I going to do with you?” I whisper to the