100 Yellow Doors

august 8th, 2019, 10:11 p.m.

Iman's ears were bleeding and she was loving every moment of it. The night was this: thundering music oozing from the speakers, squealing guitar solos and the harsh crash of drumsticks against a snare and a low bass riff twirling around somewhere behind it all. It was plastic cups brimming with Vodka or something fruity and pungent, lifted towards the twinkling stars. It was Beck's hand pressed firmly into the small of her back, his lips against her ear as he shouted over the music, "Which album was this on, Im? I can't remember."

"Achilles' Heel, right?"

Beck leaned away from her, nodding in agreement. Iman watched the profile of his face as the multicolored lights slid over it, the bump on his nose that he despised and she'd barely noticed until he'd pointed it out one day ("Oh, it's tragic, Iman...it makes me look like every Disney villain ever") illuminated in neon pink, blue, yellow. Out of mindless desire she leaned forward and kissed him on the edge of his mouth and he grinned down at her and caught her in his arms again. The summer was something permanent.

The chords petered out, and the illustrious Dave P. Mackie, head vocalist of the local DC rock band fretting class., said something unintelligible into the mic. Perhaps it was only unintelligible to Iman because her ears were bleeding. Either way, when the crowd sent up a cheer that drew a lopsided, gap-toothed smile across Dave P. Mackie's face, Iman joined them. Her arm flew up into the air, silver rings glinting upon her slim brown fingers, and her plastic cup tipped backwards, spilling a line of pale ale down her dress.

Iman shuddered—suddenly cold, sticky, uncomfortable. "Oops," said Beck. He rummaged around in his pockets until he produced a wrinkled, semi-used napkin. "Well—I've got this."

Iman rolled her eyes at him, brushing his shoulder and thrusting what remained of her beer into his hands. "You finish that. I'll be just a sec."

Beck cast her a worried look from behind his thick-framed glasses, but nevertheless didn't stop her as she began to wade through the crowd, her eyes on the glowing white Restroom sign.

The air was clear, yet so was the heat. It pressed against every inch of her skin, her eyes, her hair. Iman could no longer tell which stickiness was her own sweat and which was the beer; she smoothed her lank hair up into a minuscule bun at the top of her head and fanned herself as she climbed to the edge of the amphitheater, looping around to the bathrooms.

The ladies' room was a smorgasbord of unpleasant scents that all together had the potential to make Iman puke. Weed, urine, and saccharine e-cigarette smoke all mingled in her nostrils; Iman shoved past a group of scantily-dressed undergraduate students and claimed a mirror. Black eyeliner smeared across her face, and she guessed that most of her lipstick had made it off of her lips and onto the rim of her cup. She rinsed off. Re-applied. Let the short curls of her hair down again and smoothed one side behind her ear, like she always did, like Beck always did on the days she forgot. She ran a finger along the scar on her neck and started to think about him but then didn't.

She left the bathroom.

There he was.

Iman couldn't shake the idea that somehow her thoughts had been the catalyst that'd summoned him, that he'd somehow heard her and had come running. For whatever reason he was there, he was there, leaned back against the old brick wall between the men's and women's restrooms with his hands underneath his armpits and a half-burnt cigarette dangling between his teeth. She had seen him many times before but there was something odd about seeing him here—or now, rather. He'd been the past for so long. Someone she saw only when she wanted to. Now he was the present, too.

"Well?" he said, making Iman jolt. He turned his head slowly, dark hair flopping into his eyes as he grinned at her. "Were you going to say hello, Iman, or just keep ogling me like I'm some dashing stranger you'll never see again?"

Iman took a moment to calculate which expression was best for the situation. She landed on mostly wary. "You know who I am?"

Now it was his turn to be surprised. "Of course I do. You're that time traveling lady that always pops in. Uninvited, mind you. You don't remember? First time you showed up, you broke my flower pot and I made you buy me a new one."

A smiled bloomed across Iman's face; she stepped closer, leaning against the wall beside him. "It was a very nice flower pot, Julien. I felt awful about it."

Julien grinned.

"You should have," he said. Then: "Why did you think I wouldn't know you?"

Iman ducked her head, studying a grayish blot on the toe of her shoe and wondering how it had gotten there. "I don't know," she said. "Time is—is weird. I thought maybe this you, here, was before the you I travel to."

"You don't know what date you're going to when you go there?"

Iman shook her head. "It's not always that easy."

Julien scoffed. "Try being immortal."

"Hm. I'd rather not, actually."

Julien laughed and tore the cigarette from his teeth, smooshing it beneath his boot and leaning over the water fountain instead. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air and on his clothes; he turned on his side, shoulder against the wall. "fretting class.?" he said, and chuckled. "I'm sorry. I'd just never paint you as a rock fan."

"I'm not, usually. I came because my boyfriend wanted to."

Julien's eyebrows lifted. "Boyfriend? This is new."

"We haven't seen each other in six months," Iman pointed out. "A lot of things are new."

Julien opened his mouth and for a moment Iman's heart seized, worried he was going to ask the one question she was not prepared to answer. Then something flickered across his dark eyes and Iman was relieved when he said instead, "So you're here with someone."

"Yes. Are you?"

Julien cast a perfunctory glance around. Until then Iman hadn't noticed how on edge he was; the frantic tap of his toes, the clench of his teeth. "Yes. No. Technically. Um—I don't want to talk about it."

"Juli—"

"Let me buy you a drink."

Iman paused, waiting for him to say he was joking. She'd left Beck all alone in a crowd of inebriated people, and if she knew anything about the man she'd been dating for three months now, she knew he was already starting to get anxious. She couldn't imagine...just ditching him. "Julien," Iman warned.

"No," he said. "I'm serious. You said I haven't seen you in six months? Incorrect. You haven't seen me in six months. It's been three years since I last saw you. Time is weird? Yeah, no shit. So let me buy you a drink. We can catch up on stuff. Don't you want to catch up on stuff?"

"I can't ditch my date, Julien."

"Why not? I'm ditching mine."

"You're a vampire, though. It's easier for you because you're naturally immoral and the constructs of polite society don't apply to you."

"Hey."

Iman shook her head at him, reaching to pull her phone from her pocket instead. She didn't even get that far before Julien had taken both her hands, whirling her to face him. Black hair hung in his pleading eyes, his mouth dipped in a frown. "Immy, please. It's—Sera. I came with her but things are getting out of hand and if she finds me again, I don't know..."

"Sera?" Iman repeated, and Julien shushed her, looking around once again. She couldn't place a face with the name but remembered, vividly, the broken look on Julien's face when he had told Iman about her before. Sera. Was one name all it took to break a man?

Iman exhaled. "Just one," she said. "Just one drink and then I'm calling Beck and I'm going home."

"Beck?" Julien repeated, perplexed and a little too judgmental for Iman's comfort. "What kind of—"

Iman held up a hand. "Do not."

Julien's shoulders sank.

"Just one," he agreed, leading the way from the bathrooms. "Fine. Just one."